


Sometime Around Midnight

by cobainandstylinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abusive!Niall, M/M, Punk!Louis, Zouis Talik, daddy!harry, daddy!louis, drug addict!harry, punk!harry, teacher!Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:03:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobainandstylinson/pseuds/cobainandstylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is many things: boxer, tattoo artist, fag and after six pints, maybe a magician, but most of all, Louis' a single father of five year old Xylia. His time with her is split between work and joint custody battles with his ex boyfriend Harry, and Louis is lonely, kind of. But everything changes when Xylia begins primary school and Louis grows close to his daughter's teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sometime Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> don't be freaked that this starts out with eleanor- i swear it gets gay really soon.

“Babe, yes- keep going,” she moans, taut breasts hanging low in my face as she bounces rapidly upon my lap. 

“Fuck.” I hiss, feeling shallow heat coil at the base of my stomach. Her screams are obnoxious, echoing harshly across my bedroom, and the thought of it radiating beyond the paper walls causes me to slow my thrusts. 

“Lou, I’m gonna-”

I nod and obediently wet two fingers, pressing them to the swollen bud of her clit. 

“Daddy?” 

Eleanor, displeased, slips beneath the blanket beside me- tucking it over the both of us. 

I find Xylia, head cocked slightly to the right, her frame tiny in the wake of the doorway. She peers at me with cerulean eyes identical to mine, suddenly glossy in the ill light provided by the Target lamp on the corner nightstand. 

“You, uh, you should go.” I say softly to the body beside me, wincing at how douchie and unoriginal the words sound from a tattooed boxer with a dislike for post-sex conversation, or anything bisecting the time spent with his daughter. 

“Xy- I’ll be there in a minute, love.” I call and watch as she nods curtly before the soles of her feet pad off, hasty and unsure, against the thick rug lining the hallway between our bedrooms. 

Eleanor is turned away from me, slipping back into her workout attire. She redoes her ponytail into its rigid style- tight and seamless, her hand working at the hair tie with abrupt yanks until it’s perfectly in place. 

“I’m sorry, El- she gets-”

“Night terrors, Louis, I know. I’ve been here before.” she replies. 

“That’s not what I meant, babe, I’m sorry.” I protest and send her a sympathetic glance as I wiggle a pair of loose fitting sweatpants up my legs. 

“I’ll see you Monday.” she says, offering me a weak smile as she turns to show herself out. 

When I hear the front door click shut, I triple bolt it behind her and pouring two small glasses of milk into ceramic mugs, Oreos in hand, I retreat to Xylia’s room. 

She's sitting upright against the headrest of her single bed, and within an instant, I can recognize the anxiety pulsating her minute understanding with each layer of nail her teeth manage to gnaw off. 

“Hi Little Bean.” I say, placing the cups and sleeve of cookies on a shelf above her bed. She smiles and stretches her legs to their full extent beneath her red and black checkered duvet. 

“What’s on your mind?” 

I brace myself for any possible inquiries related to the last incident- the one about her mother.

"Is she my mumma?" 

I sigh and rake a hand through my hair- naturally caramel coloured, now tinted an artificial red.

"Eleanor- no, she's just my friend from work." 

"Oh." 

She tucks her lip between two rows of teeth, nibbling tentatively and fiddling with a hangnail off her right hand. 

"You want a mum?" I ask and prop my head on a pillow beside her, watching as her eyes narrow, inflicted with concentration, apprehensive. 

"Not really," she replies finally, "I've got you 'n Papa 'n Uncle Leeyum 'n Ni- Aunties too, like Daisy 'n Lottie." 

"You sure, Xy? It'd be alright if you did." 

She swallows thickly, eyes swollen with tears that threaten to spill over the dams of her lower eyelids. And her adult persona has vanished: leaving in its void, something vulnerable and scared and seeking succorance. 

"Why isn't she here?" 

It comes out in a wail: hollow and lonesome like a wind sent tumbling across desolate moors, recognizing only by the vibrations of scarce trees who are lonely too.   
There's nothing else for me to do than cuddle her into my chest, as if the momentary sanction of my arms can shield her from the backlash that will occur when she finally comprehends how she's here and her mother's not. 

"Why?" she repeats, ejecting mucus and tears against my torso when she cuddles farther into me. 

I press feather kisses along her scalp, 

"I'm sorry, baby- so, so sorry." 

I am. I feel terrible. I'm a terrible father, it was my fault. All of this- because the person I swore I'd always protect is crushed by the hand of something I could've prevented.  
Her eyes don't clear for another twenty minutes, and even then they're still dull and partially obstructed by morbid despair, following her pointer finger closely as it traces over the various tattoos plastered across the expanse of my chest and neck. 

"Wanna sleep in my room tonight?" 

She remains motionless, not protesting when I heave her legs around my waist and carry her with me to put away the cookies and empty the milk back into its container.   
I tuck her into the left side of my bed beneath her favourite wool blanket- my aunt knitted it for my second birthday in Doncaster. 'Louis' is still lamented in black scrawl at the lower right corner. 

Her expression is blank when I check her from the bathroom mirror, eyes fixed upon the ceiling, its plaster as uninspired as her stare. 

I use the toilet and apply cream to a sore pending between my eyebrows. 

"Your Mum wasn't ready to love you." I say when I'm snuggled in beside her. 

She reopens her eyes and sits up a bit, “But why?” 

“I don’t know, baby, I don’t know.” I sigh and run a hand through her long brown hair that runs tangled across her shoulder blades. 

“Can we listen to the Midnight song?” she inquires, drumming her fingers along the banner that decorates my left pectoral. 

I nod, smiling slightly and retrieve a vinyl from the shelf above my bed, swapping it for another along the deck of the player. 

“Number six.” she reminds me, and watches intently as I fiddle with the device until the rich, orchestral beginnings of Sometime Around Midnight fill the stale air. 

I crack open the bedside window, allowing for the night to seep in with gusts of smog from the Urban streets below and the occasional honks that decide to make an appearance in the aftermath of an August heat surge. 

“I love you, Daddy.” she murmurs, settling back into a heap of blankets gathered at the foot of the mattress. 

“I love you, Xy. Sleep tight.”

I let the song finish, the last viola chords straining melodically against nimble speakers and upon closing the blinds, I draw my daughter close to my side before surrendering to unconsciousness.


	2. Celebrity Skin

“Uppercut, right hook, left hook, uppercut- punch.” 

Using my teeth, I uproot the velcro strap from my punching mitts and catch a flying glove in my right hand. 

“I’ll see you next week, Amy- getting strong.” I offer, earning a grin from my weekly client. 

I have five more trainees before I can get my baby from Harry’s- it’s been a weekend since I saw her last and I’ve begun to get anxious. It’s obscene the way I’m divulging in my kale salad minutes before my next client is to arrive; tucking dressed leaves and radishes into the back corners of my mouth, hardly chewing. 

“What’s got you, Lou?” 

It’s Niall, blonde and sweaty- I reckon he’s run here from his flat a couple of blocks away. Blushing, I manage to swallow the remaining harsh vegetables and place the plastic container haphazardly across my lap, well aware of the forming bulge provoked by the perspiration rising from the pores of his bare chest. 

“Sorry, mate- just hungry.” I swipe my tongue experimentally along my lower lip, anticipating excess soy sauce residue. 

“I’ve got to piss, we’ll start when I get back.” 

With my left hand supporting my weight against the smooth tile wall above the single urinal, I rummage through my gym shorts to release my cock, allowing it to hang half raised from my body. 

"Fuck, come on." I groan, impatiently groping at my balls, which only appears to make the swelling more prevailant. 

"You're 22, Louis- get your shit together." 

It takes a good three minutes to return to half mast, and another two until I'm capable of urinating. 

"Ready, Niall?" I inquire once we've stretched out for a minute or so. He nods, flashing me a broad grin before expertly maneuvering his gloves onto his fists. 

His session lasts an hour twenty, and by that time I'm cramped and aggravated to the brink of insanity from having to constantly dismantle the tent pitching itself beneath my shorts and I hope to God Niall doesn't notice the annual adjusting. 

It's been a tough training and I encourage him to use the gyms foam roller. 

"I've known yeh for a while- or rather I've been comin' here a while, and I've always wanted to ask yeh... who's Xylia?" he motions with one hand to the design adorning my forearm- a portrait of my daughter at three years old, beneath which is inked, "Xylia Bean Tomlinson, 18 October, 2007." 

I smile nervously and trace my finger over the illustration, "My daughter." 

His eyes widen- crystal blue as they mull over the new information. I chuckle awkwardly, “Most people are surprised I’m not a king pin, let alone a dad.” 

“No, it’s not that- whoa.”

I feel the similar swell of disappointment resurfacing within me. It’s about thirty seconds before he speaks again. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, and I can’t believe I’m saying this but, fuck- this makes you even fitter.” 

Rose colours ignite his cream, Irish cheeks as I find myself speechless- numb besides the excitement relinquished when my dick begins to stir once again. 

“You’re serious?” I choke, to which he nods hesitantly. And I smile. 

“I’ve been ducking around with a hardon during a years time of training sessions when you actually feel the same?” 

Niall laughs, deep from his belly and I watch as laughter causes his biceps to contract with every jitter. 

He heads off to the showers and I am forced to ignore the near overpowering urge to join him. 

Instead I preoccupy myself leafing bank statements- Liam isn’t the most financially reliable business partner in the universe but he was certainly a dependable best mate.   
The two of us- along with Harry- have been stuck together since kindergarten, though Liam and I hadn’t really begun to hang out until after Xylia was born, when Harry and I started to date. 

I’m snapped out of my thoughts (fortunately, they were beginning to veer into unpleasant territory) by the rhythmic drumming of knuckles against the sheer, glass countertop.

“Now you’re just teasing me, mate.” I groan, gesturing to Niall’s still shirtless body, now decorated with condensation from the gym showers. He chuckles and leans his torso closer to mine, so that I am enveloped in the velvet layer of Axe coating his underarms. 

“Can I take you to dinner tonight?”

I sigh, “I’ve got to pick my daughter up from her dad’s house. Friday?” 

“Sounds great, I’ll call you.” he smirks and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me: the way his eyes flit from my lips to my eyes. But he pulls away, grinning, and it’s all 

I can do to cease the scream bubbling in my throat. 

“Thanks, Lou.” 

My gaze follows his muscled ass, memorizing the way it contracts with each nimble step until the greeting bell rings dull and low across the empty boxing saloon, and he’s gone. 

 

“Xylia- door!” I hear from the other side of the wood divider. Tiny feet tread along the woven entrance rug and I listen as her miniscule hands work to pry the door open. 

“DADDY!” she shrieks and throws herself into my arms. 

“Hey, love- where’s your papa?” I feign happiness, though she can instantly recognize my irritability at the mention of Harry. 

“He’s in the ba’room.” she mumbles, freeing herself from my embrace and with reluctant strides, retreats to the sofa to continue on with what looks to be Good Luck Charlie. 

I find the door to Harry’s bedroom open, and cut through it to the bathroom, where the curly-haired twenty one year old is hunched over the porcelin sink, neck craned as he douses any facial hair threatening above his upper lip with precise swipes. I taught him to shave. 

“Jesus- Louis!” he yelps, catching my reflection in the mirror. 

“You can’t just allow for a five year old to answer the door without you present- what if it had been a serial killer?” I demand, and watch as his expression falls- here we go again. 

“All the murderers are in Manchester.” he replies cooly, and I loose it.

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Harry- do you want me to take her away again?” 

His eyes narrow as if to say, you did not just go there. 

“I can’t believe you would bring that up.”

He looks genuinely hurt, and I’m instantly overwhelmed with guilt, 

“I’m sorry, Hazza. That was-”

“Yeah, here’re the football forms, I’ll get her Friday.” he snaps and hands me a folded document from beside the sink. 

“Thanks.” I sigh and lead myself out. 

Xylia takes my hand, silent as we make our way down two flights of stairs. She knows when Harry and I argue, or at least I reckon she does, otherwise her subdued attitude would be unexplainable. 

“Did you have fun with Papa?” I inquire as I strap her into her booster seat. She nods and lets out a reluctant yawn. 

“You hungry?” 

“Papa made fish sticks.” 

I cringe and back the car out of the parking garage.

“How about something from Dairy Queen? I’ve been dying for a blizzard these days.”

This time I catch a grin worming its way upon her lips in the rearview mirror.

“Is that a yes?” 

 

She opens up over dessert; spewing random details, some more painful than others. I was the one to end it- the relationship, but it still fucking hurt: wanting to wake up face first in a mop of coffee brown curls, the smell of strawberries urging me up. The times he allowed me sleep during Xylia’s teething episodes and when he made fajitas on Tuesday nights- I wonder sometimes if he still does. 

“Daddy?” 

“What’s that, darling?” I refocus my attention on the girl in front of me, currently leaking chocolate ice cream from the waffle bottom of her cone onto the park table below. 

“Can I have a napkin please?” she giggles, a brown mustache adorning her upper lip. 

“Of course, baby. Let’s ditch this place.” I chuckle, retrieving a wipe from my wallet and dabbing at her face.

“Perfect.” 

She grins when I motion for her to climb on my back, and with her ankles crossed at my belly button, I follow the weaving concrete sidewalk back to the car. Life is slow paced and effortless beneath the willows that overtake the park blocks from our flat, we’ve had good times here. 

“Can I swing for a bit?” she whispers shyly. 

“Sure.” 

She races ahead to choose her favourite, unoccupied seat nearest a dying tree, beneath which she took her first steps on a Sunday afternoon when Harry was still absent from the night before. 

I teach her how to pump her legs in order to accelerate without my pushing and she’s overjoyed when she can do it herself. 

“Daddy- LOOK!” she squeals, flinging herself onto the wood chip padding below. She ends up with a few splinters and bruises along her elbows and knees, and I have to coax her into the shower that night. 

“Xylia, please baby. For me?” she shakes her head, facing the tub as a daunting sea ready to swallow her whole. 

“What if I play the Cinderella song for you?” 

This does the trick, and she offers me an abrupt nod. I let out an admittedly gay yelp and pull my phone from my back pocket, placing it on the counter and allowing the sounds of Celebrity Skin to fill the bathroom. 

“Cinderella, they aren’t sluts like you.” she spits with as much venom as Courtney in time to the song. 

“Easy on the swear words, Xy- that’s something a bad girl says to someone she doesn’t like.” I say, suppressing a wave of laughter as I help her into the bath.

“Can I say it when I get drawings like yours?” she asks, running a finger along the outline of the ironic pinup girl along my left bicep. 

“Maybe.” I wink, lathering her brown hair with a quarter sized amount of “no tears” shampoo. 

She reminds me of myself at a slightly older age, and I’m more apprehensive than proud. I was a rowdy kid- hence how she came about when I was barely sixteen, and I really didn’t want the same for her. 

“Do you and Papa have S-E-X?” 

I choke on air and saliva before I am able to even consider formulating a response. 

“Where on earth did you hear of something like that?” I manage to sputter.

Her eyes widen and she begins to fiddle with her fingers, “Uncle Lee came over this weekend and asked Papa about S-E-X. When I asked Papa what it was he said that it was something two people did to say I love you. Do you love Papa?”

“Your Papa and I used to be very best mates, and we loved each other very much. Now we’re not as close, but I still think he’s very nice and pretty.” I reply truthfully. 

“So,” she pauses, allowing for me to wrap her in a Phineas and Ferb towel, “you used to do S-E-X, but you don’t anymore?” 

“How about the Berestein Bears tonight?” I pick a library book from her nightstand and place it at the center of her mattress. 

“Daddy!” she exclaims, exasperated. 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older, love.” 

She huffs, but continues slipping into a pair of flannel pajama shorts and a loose fitting ACDC t shirt that falls to above her knees. 

“I love you, Xylia.” 

“I love you, too, Daddy.”


	3. This Is Not Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

“I’m Louis, and this is Xylia Tomlinson.” I urge my daughter forward and she peers at the coach with shy, blue eyes and refuses to release her death grip from my left leg. 

“Hey Xylia.” he crouches down to her eye level, “Is this your first practice?” 

“Brilliant- it’s Ruth’s first as well,” he motions to a girl around the age of six who’s isolated from the clump, sat in a bed of meager daisies. She cracks a smile and peers up at me, as if to ask for permission to play. 

“Go on, Xy- I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour or so, yeah? Have fun, baby.” 

“Bye Daddy!” The next day she has her first football meet at a field near Harry's. I get off  
of work early so I have time to pick her up from daycare and get her ready for practice: some used child's cleats, shin guards and shorts with a loose hanging Man U jersey, despite my favouring Real Madrid. 

"Are you excited, Xy?" I inquire. 

We're in the parking lot, and I'm fashioning her tangled brown hair into a single fishtail braid, which turns out slightly lopsided, but still admirable. 

"Yeah, I wanna be like Messi by the time I'm old." she explains. 

“What about Ronaldo?” I exclaim, sending her a mock frown. 

“Papa fancies Messi better.” she replies. 

I take hold of her hand, sighing, as we proceed towards the small cluster of girls sat about a medium sized brunette, plucking at the surrounding grass and digging their cleats into the soft floor, as if trying to familiarize themselves with the new gear. 

The brunette- who I guesses to be the coach- runs to greet us a few yards from the others, smiling as the whistle round his neck bounces against his chest with every step. 

“I’m Josh.” he says as we exchange a tight handshake.

I trail her figure dashing away from me on a pair of chicken legs towards Ruth until they’re acquainted. 

“That’s my daughter.” he explains and I turn to face him, startled that I wasn’t the only teenage dad on the team. 

“Junior year when she decided to come round.” 

“Sophmore for me.” I reply, grinning. 

“Shit, mate.”

I chuckle, rubbing at the metal lodged at the end of my eyebrow out of instinct. 

Shrieking erupts from the knot of girls and Josh turns to me, "Reckon that's my queue to run- see you back at about 7." 

He tosses me a wink and retreats to the centre of the pitch, leaving me stranded at the sideline.  
For the next hour I sit back against the metal fence- their wires overrun with years of rust. With my iPhone on shuffle, I run through the designs I'm considering for my next tattoo and instead come up with my own idea:  
stranded and free  
this is not like Home. 

 

Gnawing at the ring cuffed over my bottom lip, I sketch out a rough draft of Big Ben, surrounding the cursive print, where the iconic tower morphs with a shabby row of townhouses.  
I feel lonely in this city. 

 

We're cleaning the parlour- Harry and I- and he's just turned on Closingtime, as he does every Saturday- our last shift of the week. 

It's only us left, and I'm hurridly overturning chairs onto picnic tables as to sweep up any remaining crust bits. Harry, meanwhile, is splayed out beside his jukebox, unearthing the white paper insides of his gum wrapper to fashion into a mediocre toke. 

"Harry! You can't light up in here- Karl's gonna smell that when he comes in tomorrow." 

He grunts and against my will, raises his Bic to the end of his joint and sets the tip afire. 

"S'not like you'd let me do it at home, Louis." he says, chuckling dryly as he takes a hit, sending pillars of smoke into the air where it dissolves into the ceiling. 

"Harry." 

He frowns, and leaves the blunt smoldering against the metal holding station between the kitchen and counter area.

He leaves to wrap his lanky arms round my waist, forcing me in all his earthly glory to face him. 

"Come to London with me." he says, craning his neck so that the bridge of his nose is nestled with mine in perfect congregation. 

"You're high." I huff, and try to shake the pounding in my chest that only arose pressed against the limbs of my best friend- my straight, best friend. 

"You're beautiful." he replies, dancing his fingertips across my cheek and I freeze momentarily.  
"Harry, knock it off!" I snap and try to wriggle myself free from his embrace, but he's stronger than I am- half a foot taller too. 

"I love you, Louis."

And he presses his lips to mine, and regardless of the taste if his mouth (smokey and green) it's exactly how I had imagined it dozens of times before. 

"I love you t-" 

 

"Daddy!" 

I blink back the fading sunset, recollecting my surroundings to welcome a perspirating six year old into my arms, her and early September dust. 

"How was it, love?" I inquire, running a hand down her spine in the coaxing way that she first embraced as an infant. 

"Really fun!" she exclaims in a rush of lisp and honest excitement, "Can Ruth come over this weekend?" 

"You'll have to talk to your Papa about that, baby. Did you say thank you to Josh?" 

She gives him a shout and we exchange knowing waves. 

"See you Saturday mornin'- 9 am!"  
My sleeping schedule heaves an internal, and very discontented sigh,

"Thanks, Josh." 

I give her a piggyback ride to the car, allowing her to spill the details of her practice into my ear with light shrieks of emphasis. 

And amid all of the pride and contentment that settles over our family, I cannot help but sense how out of place I find myself in the equation-

stranded and free  
this is not like Home.


	4. Sweet, Sweet

"Xy, hey- listen to me for a sec, please." 

She's occupied with the malt between us (of which she is taking generous helpings), but she offers me a pleading stare when I steer the old fashioned glass from her reach. 

"Bean?" 

"Sorry, proceed." 

I I chuckle, "Alright, Emily Post. You're starting school this Tuesday, okay?" 

"First grade?" she practically shouts, hesitant and slightly bemused. I nod and begin to dab at a chocolate stain to the left of her mouth with saliva and the sleeve of my jacket. 

"Don't worry, Bean- it'll be so fun 'n you'll make loads of friends, shit, I miss primary school." I sigh. 

"Alright." she shrugs, moving on to the wire basket of fries in front of her. 

I fiddle absentmindedly with the my eyebrow, smiling down at my daughter as I readjust the piercing. 

"I'm gonna drop you off at Papa's a bit early today, but I'll see you in the morning for your game, yeah?" 

She nods, taking a large bite of her hamburger. Fridays are sacred; I get off early to take her to lunch (nearly always at the Gypsy Den cafe a few blocks from our apartment complex) as to catch up before her weekends with Harry. 

"I'm going on a date tonight." I inform her, smiling slightly.

"With who? Are you gonna have S-E-X?" 

The last inquiry attracts a few sideways glances from the neighbouring counter where two truck drivers are hunkered down, mulling over meager conversation and chilli cheese fries. 

“Xylia Lorelai Tomlinson, what did I tell you about using that kind of language?” I hiss, feigning rigidness to distract from the content voiced by her father that could be attributed to me by passersby. 

She huffs, “That, I shouldn’t say things Papa and his friends would say.” 

“Generally speaking, yes.” I smirk and leaving a twenty pound note beneath a pepper shaker, I take my daughter’s hand and proceed to lead her out of the restaurant. 

 

Contrary to what I had hoped, when I arrive at Harry’s, he’s been up to his neck in withdrawals and half assed paychecks, and he’s less than happy to take Xylia early for me to see another guy. 

“You’re such a fucking dick, Louis- God, I can’t even look at you right now.” he more than screams at me over his shoulder as I trail him into his bedroom. 

Xylia’s in her room, Rocket To Russia just above a dull roar escaping through the crevices between door hinges. 

I sigh and brush an overlapping hair from my view and sink into the mattress of our old bed. 

“Harry, I haven’t been out since us- which, by the way, was your issue-”

“Which I’ve since taken care of, and you still hardly trust me.” he sighs, slumping against the door frame separating the ensuite toilet from his room. 

“I do trust you.” 

“Only when it’s convenient for you.” he responds with a humourless laugh. 

There’s a pause before I break the silence, “So, we’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll take her then.” 

 

The ride home is quiet, silence only interrupted by the sound of “Slow Cheetah” floating from my iPhone. 

“Hey, Xy?” 

“Huh?” 

“My friend Niall is coming over tonight,” I begin, only to be cut off by an excited gasp from the backseat as we pull into a spot outside of our apartment complex.

“To have S-E-X?” she shrieks, leaping out of the car and slamming the door behind her. 

I groan, “You’re never gonna drop this, are you?” 

She shakes her head and hurries to the front door, waiting for me to unlock it with the set of keys hooked on the caribeaner round the belt loop of my black skinnies. 

“Your father told you what it was, didn’t he?” 

My question is satisfied with a sheepish glance towards the floorboards. 

“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna kill him.” I hiss, seething with rage. 

We were supposed to tell her together. It had been decided when she turned three and walked in on us going at it over the sofa, we sent her back to sleep-

“We were playing tag, go to bed.” 

She was supposed to be nine- she was supposed to be innocent for three more fucking years. I don’t want her to be like Harry, especially not like me. 

 

“Don’t be mad, Daddy- please, I’m sorry.” she pleads, grasping at the fist clenched at my right side. 

I relocate reality and take her hand in mine, leading her up the stairs. 

“I love you, Xylia.” 

“You’re not mad at me are you?” 

I offer a humourless chuckle as I open the door to our flat. 

“No, love, I’m not.” I motion for her to sit at one of the barstools at the kitchen island. 

I pour her a glass of chocolate milk and place it upon a paper napkin in of front her. 

“You always give me choco milk when there’s a lecture comin’.” she sends me a suspecting glare but takes the red and white stripped straw between her lips, sipping   
thoughtfully. 

“Yeah,” I admit, laughing. 

With another curious look, I proceed on my speech. 

“Sex is a really serious thing- really adult, you know? I just wish your father could’ve waiting until you were older.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Well, it’s confusing, and it’s easier to understand once you’re, older.” 

Sighing, she takes another gulp of milk and wipes her upper lip with the napkin. 

“Do you, fuck, I’m really unprepared- do you have any questions? About anything?” 

“How do boys do it? Like with penises?”

 

The timer cries from the other room, and running a hand through my thoroughly slicked hair, I race into the kitchen to heave the pan from the oven. 

“Xy, does this look alright to you?” I tilt the metal basin forward to allow her a glimpse of the homemade lasagna that lay within, sending thick plumes of steam into the air above. 

“Yeah.” she nods feverently. 

I place the dish on a cooling rack before making finishing touches on the garden salad when the doorbell goes off. 

“Shit shit shit!” I whimper, not as subtle as I intended as Xylia skips off down the hall echoing my words to answer the door. 

“Hey, babe- wait up.” 

But it’s too late, Niall is at our front step, wearing a fresh-pressed oxford and a confused expression, a single rose in his hand. He smiles awkwardly and waves to Xylia, 

“I’m Niall.” 

“Hi.” she replies, and looks back to me, made shy by the stranger. He utters a sigh of relief once I’ve come into view.

“Niall- I’m so sorry, her dad wouldn’t take her early, let me know when I went to drop her off ‘n I didn’t want to cancel.” I explain, ushering him in.

“I’m just glad to see you.” he relaxes as I envelop him in a brief hug. 

“Xy, could you set the table for us, love?” 

She nods diligently and rushes to retrieve the plates and utensils from the cupboard, filling a pitcher with ice water. 

“I’m really, really sorry.” I say again once we’re alone in the hallway. 

“‘S fine, Louis, I just want to spend time with you, alright?” 

He reaches to fiddle with my eyebrow piercing, as I always do, and leans forward, pressing his lips to mine for a fleeting second before Xylia butts in.

“”M hungry, Daddy- come on!” 

Niall chuckles, sighing into my mouth. 

“Hope you like lasagna.” 

 

Dinner goes well. Conversation flows evenly between the three of us and I think that maybe this is what she needs, another parent, or at least one more stable and controlled. 

Xylia is at ease and well behaved throughout the entire three courses, even offering to tuck herself in at her proper bedtime when I fail to notice. I insist on putting her to bed myself, wrapping her tight beneath her comforter and singing her to sleep. 

 

“Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet little agony  
I don't know just where you've been  
But I'll take take take  
All that you have for me in sin

Where are we going?  
And they all want you to change  
And they all want you to change.”

 

I retreat back to the living room where Niall is relaxed against the couch, taking swigs of his Corona Lite during commercial breaks. 

“You’re a magnificent singer.” he smirks, cuddling me close. 

“Am I?” I reply cheekily, edging my way into his lap until I’m straddling his hips. 

He chuckles, and leaning forward, proceeds to nibble at my neck. 

“Wanna see my room?”


	5. You & I

The next morning is utter chaos. 

“Xylia- put your cleats on!” 

“I can’t find them!” 

“They’re by the door- I’ve only told you five hundred times.” I run a hand through my tousled fringe as I spread peanut butter over the face of a plain bagel. 

Niall creeps out of bed in a pair of my Calvin Kleins, yawning and scratching at his chest. 

“Hey,” I say, offering him a sympathetic smile, “sorry, we’ve gotta get going to her game.” 

“I’ll get out of yer hair then, thanks for last night.” he leans over the counter to press a kiss to my lips. 

He says goodbye to Xylia- who has finally located her trainers and is lacing them up upon the living room ottoman- and adds over his shoulder with a final smirk, “I’d like to do it again.” 

Chuckling, I return to my fatherly duties. 

 

Xylia is entirely restless on the way to the field, picking at her breakfast bagel and dictating the music selections, or at least trying to. 

“NO- not this!” she groaned. 

“Xylia Lorelai Tomlinson- this is the Velvet Underground, and it is 8 am on a Saturday, en-fucking-joy.” I reply rather snappily before cranking up Some Kinda Love from my iPhone. 

She slumps back in her booster seat, folding her arms across her chest- a mannerism that I’d really care to credit to Harry, but my mother will tell you that I’m the stubborn one. 

“Baby, don’t be mad at me.” I send her an apologetic glance when we reach a stoplight that’s as puppy-like as I can achieve with a face adorned with three metal pieces stuck in my face. 

“Shut up.” she snaps, attempting to conceal an infamous Xylia grin. 

I pinch her kneecap teasingly, “Hey- respect your elders, silly.” 

She giggles and we become regular again. 

 

Harry arrives about at halftime. Xylia is seated cross legged in front of me upon the strip of sideline grass, sucking the pulp from the collection of orange slices that the team mom has provided when he comes jogging up behind her. 

“Hey, Xy- look who’s here!” I nod in his direction, watching as she whirls around to leap into his arms.

They exchange words that I can’t make out and I give them a minute before I interrupt with a gatorade bottle. 

“Keep hydrated- it’s dry out.” 

Harry scoffs and lowers her to the ground, where she retreats to her place across from me. 

“Did you score yet?” Harry asks, taking a seat to my left.

“No, but I got a, a- what’s it called Daddy?” 

“An assist, two actually.” 

“That’s my girl!” he reaches out to give her a high five just as Josh is beginning to round up the other girls. 

“Crush it out there, Xylia Lorelai!” I exclaim, roughing up her hair teasingly. 

 

During the time that we’re alone- me and Harry- there’s no conversation until the fourth quarter when he decides he’s fed up with the judgemental looks that he’s had to endure for the last fifteen minutes. 

“Jesus Christ, if these old broads had someone to fuck ‘em once ‘n a blue moon maybe they wouldn’t be so fucking uptight.” 

I roll my eyes as he begins to rummage around in his back pocket for a lighter and fag. 

Mothers and fathers exchange looks, and I force him to put it out. 

“Can you wait ten minutes? Don’t fuck this up for her, please?” 

He buries the ash tip into the earth beside him, sending dissipating plumes into the atmosphere, chewing me out on the air of his breath as he does so. 

But I merely sigh because I’ve won this battle and Xylia’s happy, her brown ponytail catching in the wind as she hurls herself down the field towards the opposing goal, ball in her possession- she’s flying. That is, until she trips on a clump of overturned earth and her face is met with the ground in front of her. 

“Shit, fuck.”

Without thinking, I’m the first one out there, and I don’t care if I look super fucking stupid. My body reacts before me: muscles achieved from years of fighting carry me to the crumpled pink jersey towards the end of the short pitch. 

“Daddy, it hurts.” she moans, choking on a wail and I don’t wait to scoop her into my arms. 

“Oh baby, I know, I know.” 

She tucks her face into the bunched hood of my grey Ramones sweater and allows her body to contract with light sobs. 

I meet Josh at the field’s center, and I’m grateful that he’s so understanding.

“It’s scary- I would’ve done the same had it been Ruth,” he explains and directs his attention to the bundle in my arms, “Xylia, why don’t you sit out for the last few minutes- Mrs. Kearns has some leftover fruit for you munch on until the match’s over. You played hard out there.” 

I press a kiss to her temple and send her off to the team tent with a “I’m proud of you, Xylia Tomlinson!” to which she responds with a goofy face, tongue out. Far too much like me. 

 

“She’s fine, yeah?” inquires Harry when I return to my original place. 

“Reckon she’s pretty tuckered out. You should probably put her down early tonight.” 

“I know how to parent, Louis, thanks though.” he remarks, leaning back on his elbows and even through his pair of oversized ray bans, I can distinguish the deep purple bags along the skin south of his eyes. 

“Yeah, sorry.” 

 

Xylia races up to us once the match has ended in a ball of pink cheeked energy and I hate to leave her when she’s like this. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, my love.” I whisper, hoisting her in my arms. 

“Love you, Daddy!”

“I love you more!” 

Transferring her to Harry, I catch regret in his eyes with his sunglasses perched among the mangled mass of curls atop his head, and he says a nearly inaudible “‘M sorry,   
Lou.” 

“Bye, Harry.” 

 

I get home, and it stings how lonely it is, so quiet without my daughter. Some days are harder than others. 

But I won’t be here for long- Eleanor and I have a session scheduled for 5-6, and I plan on making a run to the record store down the street on my way to satisfy my bluegrass craving. 

 

The shadows expand on the pavement as I tour down Bristol Road to Margie’s Spins where I come across a Trampled By Turtles record that I immediately settle on.   
Eleanor’s already there when I arrive, early as per usual. 

“Hey, babe.” I lean forward to peck her cheek. 

She offers me a weak greeting, smiling slightly. I help her stretch out on one of the gym’s fold out mats and realize what little my basketball shorts do to obscure my half hard cock when she folds over, legs spread wide and I really, really, really want to get laid. 

“Come over to mine tonight.” she breathes between jabs, not missing a beat when she transitions to upper hooks. 

I grin and shuck my gloves to clutch her hips, “You read my mind, baby.” 

 

Eleanor Calder shares her flat with her older sister, Julie, and her fiance, Fernando. They’re both out when we stumble in at half nine, already drunk off our asses from a stop at Gregory’s on the way home and I bend her over the couch. 

I struggle to tug her yoga pants down and end up having to unlace her trainers and remove them entirely. Giggling, I move between her legs, spreading them farther until her pussy is more accessible. She gasps, grinding herself, wet and slick with precome, onto my right hand trigger fingers. 

“More, Lou- your cock.” 

“Yeah, one min, Ellie.” 

I remove my fingers from her cunt to leave through my wallet, retrieving a small foil packet. 

“Hurry, Louis. Ugh. Need you, so bad.” 

“Babe, ‘m go’n as fas’ as I can.” I slur, tugging my shorts down so that my balls and erection spring free- only to be slicked into a rubber. 

I utter a groan as I ease myself into her, gentle and slow- even though she wants it rough, I’d much rather, even in my altered state, give her the opportunity to dictate the pace. 

She feels good around me, clenching with every shriek when I hit a good spot. I still picture myself drilling into a more defined ass, something masculine and everything Eleanor’s not. 

I finish her off with my fingers and toss the knotted condom in the kitchen rubbish. 

She’s sleepy and adorned in drunken satisfaction and at this point I’m far from capable of operating any sort of vehicle, so I sleep beside her that night, something I   
usually try to avoid. 

 

The next morning I’m greeted with a venti espresso and two cherry danishes. We talk over breakfast and pain relievers between bathroom emergencies (I hold her hair back), and I realize we’re friends, Eleanor and I. Genuine pals. 

We kiss goodbye and I go home to have a shower and a toss off before I head Harry’s. 

 

“I can’t make it on Tuesday.” he announces softly, leaning against the back of the sofa as Xylia views Dragon Tale reruns from her beanbag chair out of sight. 

I sigh into the heels of my palms and begin madly rotating my plugs in their sockets, “Does she know that?” 

“Can you tell her?” he pleads, “I have to do a chest piece at 7- please, Louis, I’m sorry.” 

“Fuck, Harry.” 

I’m bummed, disappointed- a rare emotion allowec by my cynical mindset. 

“I know, shit, fuck. I just really need this.” 

And I understand, I really do. I’ve been there- 6 years ago when I moved across the country to London with newborn Xylia, all by myself. But I hadn’t had the option to pick and choose- it was her or nothing. 

“I’ll pick her up.” he decides, “2:30 on Tuesday.” 

That’ll have to suffice. 

 

I rise early on Tuesday morning, preparing sandwiches and apple slivers and capri suns. I butter toast and pour two cups of Yorkshire with one cream and sugar. 

And there comes a point where I can’t wait any longer and I burst into the pink bedroom down the hall from me, catapulting myself onto the twin mattress. 

Xylia merely burrows further beneath the shelter of her duvet, “Daddy-no.” 

“Come on, Xy- I’ve got breakfast all set for your FIRST DAY OF PRIMARY SCHOOL- YAY!” 

“Sendin’ you to a home.” she murmurs and can’t help but emerge from below the covers to join me in laughter. 

“That’s enough sarcasm from you- Jesus.” I giggle and give her room to stretch and wake up as I pull an outfit that I deem fit from her small closet. 

And soon enough, my daughter is dressed and her hair is brushed, as are her teeth. 

She’s beautiful, undebatably so, sitting across from me wearing the Courtney Love t-shirt I had tailored myself to her size, tucked into a black tutu. She wears a pair of red Converse high tops- the first pair of shoes she’s picked out for herself, and I hope she doesn’t outgrow them too soon. 

Her only request that morning was for a fishtail braid- “The one Auntie Gemma wears sometimes” and I oblige as she finishes up her breakfast crumpet. 

She wants to carry everything- her Kermit lunchbox, her Addams Family backpack- and insists on skipping down the last two flights of stairs to the parking garage. 

“Hey.” I peer at her in the rearview mirror as I often do. 

She offers a nod of acknowledgement and continues to sip at her lukewarm tea through her sippy cup. 

“Wanna hear a good song?” 

Another nod brings on the beginning chords of the Crystal Fighters and I crank it up until I’m nearly pained. 

 

“And I ain't need nothing else, no one else but you and I  
And it ain’t me, it ain’t you, it's only us, it's us right now  
You're finding it, take it, take it in, it’s all here  
You and me, no one else, nothing else but us right now.”

 

She grins in the back as I parallel park in an open space across the street from London Cross Public Primary. Time isn’t a factor now and she makes me skip with her to the classroom. 

I’m having an out of body experience, watching how a broken condom in freshmen year caused a misted punk to succumb to life and fatherhood and though odd, I’m content, nearly. 

I know I look idiotic, that there are parents already judging me as it is, and that I really shouldn’t press my luck, but I do, and it's in that state that I meet Mr. Malik, Xylia’s year one professor. 

And I know that I’ve been hit by something crafted from Venus and Eros themselves.


	6. Untitled

I’m in the midst of training Niall when Holiday In Cambodia goes off in my pocket and with an apology I accept the unknown number. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi- ‘s this Mr. Tomlinson?” 

Heart pounding, I nibble at my lip ring, “Yeah-yes.” 

“It’s Mr. Malik, Xylia’s teacher- I hate to bother you, it’s just that she’s still here- class ends at half 14.” 

I nearly drop the phone, caught between immense furiousity and panic at the thought of Xylia stranded at her small group table. 

“I’ll be there, soon- I’m so sorry.” 

Without awaiting a reply from the far-too-attractive-to-be-a-school-teacher, I end the call

“Fuck, Ni- can you run with me to get Xylia at school? Har- her dad forgot, we’ll pick this up in twenty, yeah?” 

He sighs, nodding, and takes my hand as we make our way to my car. 

We’re there in seven minutes flat to find the pair sitting cross legged on the school lawn, engaged in eager conversation- Xylia is usually unsure of people besides Harry, and I. 

I pull the car to a stop in the loading zone and leap out to greet them. 

“ ‘M so, so, sorry- her other father was supposed to get her today.” I explain, allowing Xylia to hurl herself into my arms. 

“It’s fine, Mr. Tomlinson- no problem at all, we had fun.” he grins, reaching to tug playfully at Xylia’s braid. 

“Why wasn’t Papa here?” 

“Uhm, he had a client today.” I fib, exchanging knowing looks with her teacher and I find myself wondering how it’s possible for one to look so fucking fit in a simple denim jacket- one adorned with various patches that I’m entirely certain he wasn’t wearing this morning. Tattoos are peeking out from beneath the right cuff, a small yin-yang inked on the outside of his opposite wrist. 

He catches me eying him and smirks, “Is that your husband?” 

“Ex Boyfr-” 

“Daddy has sex with Niall now.” 

If I wasn’t blushing, I certainly am now. 

“Xylia Lorelai Tomlinson, can you please wait in the car?”

She huffs, climbing out of my arms and disappearing behind me. It’s then, when we’re alone, that I notice he’s laughing, cracking up, in fact. 

“Jesus- again, I’m so, very sorry.” I groan, burying my face into the heels of my palms. 

“Mr. Tom-” 

“Louis- I hardly deserve to be a mister at this point in time.” 

“Louis, how old are you?” 

I’m caught off guard and I switch to fiddling with my eyebrow cuff as I respond with a meek, “Twenty-two.” 

Mr. Malik rubs at my bicep, “You’re doing just fine- Xylia’s a great kid, really bright.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Malik.” I say, sincerely, wincing in the absence of his touch when his hand settles to his side. 

I’m making my way back to the car when he calls after me, “It’s Zayn to someone two years younger and five times fitter, Zayn Malik.” 

 

Contrary to the month that ticks by in slow motion strides, my relationship with Niall is fast-developing. He moves in towards the end of September and Harry insists on meeting the man who’s to spend so much time with his daughter- which is why I find myself preparing a meal for four the following Tuesday night.   
Niall’s been squirrely all evening as I’ve focused on creating a tofu teriyaki dish and keeping the house organised. 

“You alright, Xy?” 

She’s sat across from me with a worksheet placed in front of her that reads ‘multiplication practise’ across the top in capital print. 

“Makes no sense.” she heaves a groan, chucking her pencil onto the countertop beside her. 

“Papa’ll help you when he gets here, he’s always been good with numbers- ah, speak of the devil.” 

Harry slinks in in a pair of skin tight jeans and a collared shirt, a smile playing at his lips. He presses a kiss to Xylia’s cheek and climbs into the seat next to her. 

“How’s my bean?” 

“Mad.” she snaps. 

I flick at her temple lightly before turning to Harry, “Can you help her with her maths?” 

Grinning, he nods, “Never were good at it, Lou.” 

I scoff, laughing, “You’ve always held that over my head!” 

“S’cause it was the only thing I had over you.” 

And it makes me sad- that statement has some truth to it. 

So I laugh, scratching at the back of my neck sheepishly. 

Just then Niall slumps in through the front door, hair in a state of exceptional disarray, shirt untucked. 

“Hey- Ni, this ‘s Harry, Harry- Niall.” 

The two size each other up for a brief moment before Niall extends his hand to meet Harry’s in what I suspect is an uncomfortably firm handshake. 

With a nod, Niall maneuvers around me to retrieve a bottle of Beamish from the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen. 

Harry sends me a quizzical expression from across the counter and returns to helping Xylia with her assignment. 

Niall heads to the family and switches on a Derby game, cracking open his beverage using the edge of the coffee table. 

“Xy- come on, three plus three plus three is the same as three times three.” Harry coaxes, running a hand through his unruly coffee curls. 

I chuckle, setting out three glasses of water on the kitchen table. 

"You alright?" I whisper, pecking at the shell of his ear. 

“Just brilliant!” he exclaims, drawing the attention of the other two from the opposite side of the room. 

Sending Harry an apologetic look, I clasp my hand around Niall’s wrist and proceed to drag him off to our bedroom. 

After I’ve shut the door behind us, I turn and face him. 

“What the hell’s crawled up your ass ‘n died?” I demand, harsher than I had initially intended. 

“Fuck you, Louis.” 

“You’ve been home less than ten minutes and I’ve already fucked up?” 

He jumps up from his place at the edge of our mattress to take a few steps toward me. 

“I had a shit day, ‘n all I wanna do is come home ‘n eat ‘n fool ‘round with yeh but I can’t ‘cause yer busy flirtin’ with your ex wha’ever-”

“Niall, I’ve had this planned for weeks, you know that! And for Christ’s Sake this whole fucking thing is for you-” 

“Oh bullshit, Louis. Yeh wan’ me ‘round to show yer lil baby daddy tha’ yeh’ve moved on.” 

“If you’re not able to handle this dinner then I don’t see how you’re in any way fit enough to help me raise a six year old when you’re one yourself.” 

And then his fist’s flying at me, almost splicing me above the eyebrow before my childhood reflexes kick in and I’ve caught his hand bent backwards from my face. 

He omits a sharp yelp, nearly falling to the floor in front of me, grasping at his wrist in dire pain. 

“Shit, Lou-” 

“I’ll pack your shit- be back to pick it up on Monday.” 

When he lets out an exceptionally daft wail, Harry bursts through the door to drink in a scene all too calculable, but I’m already fading when he rushes to my side with pleas of “Lou- stay with me, Louis Tomlinson.. Xylia, OUT!” 

 

“Louis, be careful with that, honey- your father’s in his study and you know how he likes his peace.” 

My mother’s in her blue checkered apron, trimming roses of their thorns over the sink, one by one, the sheared flowers placed in a plastic Betty Boop vase. Lottie’s in her high chair- not yet a toddler then, and I remember the sound of applesauce hitting the kitchen tile in dolops when she decides to hurl her miniature utensil across the room. The spoon falls in line with the medicine cabinet, falling to the floor with a dull pang. It’s when I scamper after it that the trophy slips from my grasp, and there’s no mistaking the sound of glass when it shatters into microscopic oblivion. 

“Louis- shit, shit, shit. Oh God..”

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, DADDY, I’M SORRY- PLEASE NO!” 

 

I wake in a layer of cool sweat, clinging to me tighter than the skin protecting my organs. I’m on my bed- Harry slumped unconscious in the spot beside me, hair as unruly as ever. 

Nauseous relief coats me as a whole, and creeping along the wood floor boards, I escape down the hall to the right.

Xylia’s awake, much to my astonishment, nose buried in a borrowed copy of Island of the Blue Dolphins. But she notices my presence almost immediately, tearing her gaze from the page to me and we’re both rendered speechless for a time. 

“Are you okay, Daddy?” 

I shrug, sinking into the mattress neighbouring her, “You finish your math alright?”

"Oh, I'll surprise you sometime, I'll come around  
When you're down."


	7. Hush

“So, Xy’s got back-to-school-night next Wednesday but someone’s gotta take her to football that night-” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Harry waves his arms about frantically after downing the last of his cafe ou lait, “what’s with this back-to-school-night bullshit? Haven’t they been in for what, six weeks now?” 

I roll my eyes, ignoring the look our waitress sends us as she lays down our bill, “That’s not the point, will you be able to go with me that night? I think I’ll be able to get Liam to sit if I’m extra charming.” 

“Well, shit then.” he huffs, leaning back in his chair to check out one of the female baristas. 

“Harry! Will you be able to make it? This’s really important ‘n I don’t wanna go on my own.” I plead, biting down on lip cuff.

He groans, giving me a reluctant nod. 

“Right. I’ll see you Friday- you’re picking her up, yeah?” 

Again, he nods, “Half past 18 hours.” 

 

Leaving behind a meager tip and change for our coffees, I return to work with bags beneath my eyes. 

I haven’t been able to sleep since the incident four days ago, and it’s since gotten worse with packing up Niall’s belongings. He picked them up while I was at work, leaving behind only some stray articles of clothing that I take upon myself to donate to the local Goodwill. 

Harry’s been as helpful as he’s willing to be- which is not much at all aside from going over her maths. 

Winter is fast approaching- shadows stretched to their full extent upon the sidewalk in the late afternoon chill. Heather is my last client of the day, pretty insignificant, absolute. 

By 6:45 I’m caught in congestion on the way to Xylia’s after school care, but I manage to arrive somewhat on time. 

I make her and Harry a bow tie pasta dinner, and listen to her reiterate the details of her day. 

"I made a friend today- his name's Julian and-" 

"Wait, give me a second-" Harry begins, before a shoot him a warning glare, "you haven't got boyfriend, have you?” 

She blushes and bats her eyes viciously, “He told me I was pretty.” 

“What the fu-” 

“Harry- shut up.” I hiss, sufficiently cutting him off and he returns to helping her with her grammar practice. 

The rest of the night is low-key, and I talk to Xylia after Harry heads home. 

“So, Julian’s nice, yeah?” 

Nodding, a grin breaches her lips and she ducks her head beneath the bath water for a few seconds to squirm about. 

“Startin’ young are you? Christ, Xy- I’ll be gray by thirty at this rate.” I smile, cuddling her into a worn swimming towel. 

“Get your PJs on and I’ll read you a story, deal?” 

Having showered already, I swap my jeans for a pair of boxer briefs and a black muscle tee. I’m about to journey out to her’s when I find her waiting at the foot of my bed with round, glassy eyes.

“Hey- what’s up?” 

“Can I sleep wif you?” she inquires, bottom lip drooping glumly as she fends off tears. 

“Course, as soon as you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Scared.” 

“Why’s that, baby girl?” 

I gather her in my arms and move us beneath the covers of my bed, waiting for an explanation. 

She burrows farther into my chest- gathering the loose cotton fabric tight in her fist. 

“Daisy from m’ class said that I’m gonna die.” 

“You’re safe as long’s you’re with me or your papa.” I say, rubbing circles across her shoulder blades when I notice that she’s begun to cry. 

“Na uh, s-she said that I’m a, a bast-art, ‘n that you hate me.” she sobs and throws her arms around my neck in one shaky spasm. 

My heart jolts, and I’m forced to steady myself, to put up a front for her. I take her by the arms, holding her upright so that we’re face to face. 

“Xylia Lorelai Tomlinson, I need you to know something: there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, you could do to make me hate you in any way, shape or form. You’re my favourite person in the entire universe, okay? I’ll always love you, always, Xy. Don’t you ever listen to that kind of trash, promise?” 

She extends her pinky finger to interlace it with mine, trembling as she does. 

“I’m sorry, Da-ddy.” 

“Baby girl, I love you so, so much.” 

“Love you a lot, too.” 

And I clutch her close to me now, allowing for her shudders to lessen into eased breaths, enough time for the tears in my eyes to be dabbed away with balled fists. 

Once she’s calm again, I tuck her into the space beside me and ask what she wants to listen to. 

“The Stones?” 

“It’s a bit late for Mick, love- but I have a band you’ll like, you trust me?” 

She nods, giggling slightly as I pop an Angus and Julia Stone disc into the player on my nightstand, allowing for the sounds of Hush to fill the room, lulling and tender.

“If you wake to find you're all alone  
Call me up on the telephone, and I'll say  
"Come on 'round, kick up your feet"  
I'll check to see if your heart still beats, you can stay  
I heard her laugh but she sounded blue  
I said "you know my heart's for you, it likes awake  
Dreaming of its promised land  
A gentle touch from your gentle hand" I would say.”

 

The next morning is a Friday, and after four early mornings, Xylia is less than compliant. 

“I’m serious, Xylia- if you don’t get up in two seconds, I’m gonna tell Mr. Malik about your barbies.” 

At this she nearly leaps out of bed, dashing down the hall to her room where she is able to dress herself now. 

I place her homemade lunch into the front of her backpack along with her two pages of home assignments, moving to make the two of us egg white omelettes.

“Would you’d of really told Mr. Malik ‘bout my barbies?” she asks with a mouthful of mashed toast. 

 

“Maybe.” I tease, sitting beside her to finish my own plate of food. 

“Where’s Niall?” 

“He’s not nice, don’t want him ‘round anymore.” I reply truthfully, placing my dish in the sink to tend to later. 

“Hm.” 

The ride to school is uneventful, but Xylia insists on having me walk her to class. 

“Do the other parents do this too?” 

She shrugs, averting her eyes to the concrete below and the answer’s in her expression so I squeeze her hand extra tight and steer us to her class where Zayn Malik is waiting against the door jamb, greeting various pupils and their parents. 

"Hey, Miss Xylia- how are you?" 

"Hi Mr. M!" she exclaims, throwing her arms around his legs and I blush when she unknowingly nestles the side of her head into his crotch. 

She turns to hug me good bye, "Love you, Daddy." 

"Love you too, my baby girl- have a great day, yeah?" 

And with a final smile, she races off into the classroom, leaving Zayn and I alone at the doorway. 

"Good to see, Mr. Tomlinson."

"It's Louis- just, yeah." I murmur, swallowing an impending blush and clearing my throat, "I was wondering if you could keep an eye on Xylia for me? She's having a bit of a rough time with a girl in her class- Daisy?" 

Zayn's gaze hardens, "What's been going on?" 

"Just- I don't know, nothing you need to stress about." 

"Lou, hey-" my heart rate increases as he reaches to give my hand a squeeze, "whatever it is, tell me." 

"Shetoldxyliathatshewoulddiewithoutamotherandthatshesabastard and, I dunno what to do- there's just so much sh- stuff going on right now, fuck, I'm so so sorry." 

Zayn looks about, scanning the flocks of staff and kids before leading me around the back of the building to a more secluded area. 

"I'll take care of this, okay? That's bullshit- I'm sorry. I've told you this before but you're doing an incredible job with Xy and it's not okay for someone to talk to her that way." 

I nod, drawing heavy breaths as he eyes me up and down. 

And I don't even know how it happens when he's got me pressed against the popcorn concrete wall, his mouth working my own open, allowing for his tongue to work against mine. 

"Fuck." he groans, pulling back and straightening his pressed suit jacket. 

"That was unprofessional, I'm really sorry-" 

"Zayn, I've wanted that since I dropped Xylia off her first day, don't worry about it."

He grins widely, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip, "Always wondered what it'd be like to kiss a bloke with a lip piercing." 

"What's the verdict?" 

"Pretty outstanding, mate." he replies with a flirtatious smile and I have to make a conscious effort to stunt the growth in my pants. 

"Better get back in there." I jerk my head towards the classroom where a small line has formed. 

"Thanks for the, yeah-" he says, "pullin' for it to happen again." 

"Bye, Zayn." 

"Bye, Louis."


	8. I'm A Bitch

The week passes with no further contact from the primary school teacher and I pretend to let it slide off my back, focusing the majority of my energy on Xylia and work. 

Harry drops her off at the gym on the following Wednesday for Liam to take her to practise while the two of us head to the school.

"Why're you preening so much- got a thing for some parent?" Harry inquires lightly, watching me fiddle with my hair in the mirror of his car's blinder. 

"Aw bug off." I retort with a huff. 

"Louis, we've been mates since grade six- I know when you're tryin' to get it." 

He rolls his eyes and parks the jeep in a spot across from the school. 

"Just some dude." 

I slam the door shut and take a moment to look over my outfit: a white button up with sleeves short enough to showcase the tattoos running along the length of both my arms. 

"Hooked up with him yet?" Harry asks, sticking close to my side as we venture along the pavement towards the lower primary departments. 

"Will you drop it?" 

Harry merely laughs, rubbing at the area where he's gotten a new design along the inside of his bicep. 

"Soon as you tell me- oh shit." 

I follow his eyes to see where they've landed- and it's Zayn, greeting parents at the entrance to his room, and he looks really beautiful, so chiseled and pretty. 

"Holy shit, Louis- s'that him?" 

I nod and grab violently at his arm, tugging him into me before we fall into the light of the door. 

"Okay, please, please- don't be, weird." 

I plead. 

“Fuck- he’s fit, Lou- REALLY fit.” Harry says, holding his arms up in defense. 

“But I get it- he’s all your’s.” 

Grinning, I rough up Harry’s curls a bit- a staple that held us together through secondary school and four years of raising a daughter as a couple. 

“Want me to make him jealous for you?” he whispers, snaking his arm around my waist as we approach the classroom. 

“Harry.” 

“Hey- I’ve got some credibility, yeah? You thought I was pretty fit during-”

“Hi, Mr. Malik.” I greet, dragging Harry’s sniggering ass behind me. 

“Evening, Mr. Tomlinson.” he replies with a sly grin, moving his eyes to Harry. 

“You must be Xylia’s father- I’m Zayn.” 

Harry gives his hand a shake, “Nice to meet you, ‘m Harry. Thanks for takin’ care of Xy for Boobear and I- we really appreciate it.” 

I cringe at the nickname, shrugging Harry off of me and it’s not that far off from he used to shoot up- the cocky, delusional attitude.

Zayn’s fists clench and quickly unclench at his sides, and it takes him a few seconds to recompose himself. 

“I’ve got to get back in there, but it was nice to meet you, Mr. Tomlinson,” he says to Harry and gives me a simple nod, “Louis.”

My jaw set, I linger towards the back of the classroom, trailed by Harry, to sit along a paint splattered countertop. 

“Harry, what the fuck was that for?” I hiss below the drone of the other parents mingling amongst each other. 

“What’re you mad at me for? He obviously likes you, by the look on his face when I practically licked your face- you shoulda seen it, Lou-” 

“Christ, Haz.” I groan into the heels of my palms and allow for him to tuck an arm round my shoulders. 

The crowd settles down when Zayn- very cordially- attracts the attention of the group with a brief introduction. This earns him mad heart eyes from the mums, one in particular who can hardly keep her tongue in her mouth. 

Harry notices me staring her down, and gives me a gentle nudge, chuckling to himself. 

Towards the end of Zayn’s outline of this year’s curriculum, he begins to take the rather ridiculous questions from the parents who breed the anxious race of children- the overachievers. 

He handles it with diligence, taking each inquiry into careful consideration. 

“Feel free to contact me at anytime throughout the year- email’s best,” he clasps his hands together before proceeding, “there are sweets in the back for you lovely parents to enjoy, and I’ll be right back with a pot of coffee. Thank you so much for showing up!” 

My body reacts quicker than my mind and with a spare word to Harry, I’m wrestling the group to catch up to Zayn outside. I catch him in the middle of the desolate playground, made chilly by the harvest moon soaring low in the sky. 

“Hey.” I breathe, my breath foggy in the crisp space between us. 

“Hi, Louis.” he replies shortly, moving to turn back around before I catch his arm and tug him into me.

“‘M sorry ‘bout Harry- he’s a bit wacky, protective sometimes-” 

“I feel like a bloody idiot, Louis,” he laughs humourlessly. 

“Why?”

“Do you think I’m so daft? When I kissed you- I never would’ve done it if I’d known that you were still with Xylia’s dad-” 

“Is that what you think’s gone on?” I interrupt, nearly laughing myself, “Harry and I are just friends! It ended two years ago ‘n we’ve been working to keep friendly for Xylia- God, Zayn, I like YOU.” 

And we’re kissing again and I’m quite certain I catch a hint of Marbolo masked behind a mint tongue, but we’re so busy grasping at each other upon the unsteady wood   
chips decorating the jungle gym floor and he’s so heavenly. 

I’m half hard in my trousers when he pulls away, panting visible clouds of lust into the night.

“Gotta get that coffee, they’re bound to get rowdy in there.” he sighs and presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. 

“Can I call you sometime? We can go to dinner?” I ask, surprised at myself. 

“I really should say no,” Zayn pauses, his lips curving up into one of his delicious grins, “but I like you too, Louis Tomlinson.” 

 

“Fuck.” I groan, grinding my crotch into Zayn’s as his tongue traces over the tattoos along my ribs and stomach, paying special attention to the patch of coarse pubic hair from that disappears below the waist of my denims. 

“So pretty, Lou.” he murmurs, undoing my zipper. 

He wastes no time in peppering me with dirty nothings as he works my boxers around my ankles. 

“Wanted to taste you for so long, mh.” 

He presses a teasing kiss to the swollen tip of my prick, warm hands massaging my balls with effortless precision. 

“Please, Zee- I need it.” 

And his mouth is around me- humming around the entire length of my cock and I can hardly bear the scruff along his jaw working pleasantly along my scrotum and it feels so incredible. 

“Gonna cum soon, oh shit.”

He simply hums against me, his nails digging into the backs of my thighs. 

“Daddy?” 

I ignore it, until it comes again, louder than before. 

“DADDY, I’M GONNA BE LATE!”

I jolt up in bed, enveloped in a thin layer of sweat and sunshine seeping in from between the curtains. Xylia’s at the door to my room, glaring at me with stern turquoise eyes. 

“Xy, my alarm hasn’t gone off yet.” I moan into my pillows. 

“IT’S NEARLY EIGHT.” 

Shit.


	9. Bitters & Absolut

I’m on my lunchbreak that afternoon when I receive a call from an unsaved number. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey- Louis, it’s Zayn.” 

I blush involuntarily and run a hand through my red tinted hair. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Erm, well- I’m actually callin’ ‘cause, Xylia- she sort of chewed a girl- Daisy- out in front of the vice principal.” 

“She WHAT?” 

“Yeah, I totally wouldn’t have bugged you with this, it’s just once the administration gets involved I’m supposed to-” 

“Does she have to go home?”

“Today ‘n tomorrow- shit, I’m really sorry, Lou-” 

“Zayn, you’re fine, I’ll pick her up in a few, ‘right?” 

“Yeah, yeah- see you soon.”

Exchanging brief words with Liam, I race to retrieve Xylia from school with the promise of returning within the hour. 

I find my six year old daughter sat in a seat where I had been so many times before, her eyes fixed on an imaginary string along the seam of her pink tutu.

It wasn’t that I was disappointed in her- not at all, it was all too familiar. Harry and I were practically permanent residents of the principals office by sophomore year; before Xylia was born. We would match in the bathrooms when I was supposed to be in Chem (he had dropped a course), and get off on lazy hand jobs. 

This was too soon for her- this cursing, getting in trouble, knowing about sex. She was my responsibility and I was failing to do her the justice of a happy childhood. 

 

So when I arrive, ushered into a whitewashed wicker chair beside Xylia, I am relieved to find a sheepish Zayn standing diagnol to the suited, grave faced man.

"Mr. Tomlinson," nods the man, glancing between the two of us before directing his full attention to the culprit beside me, "Would you like to explain to your father what you've done wrong today?" 

"Haven't done nothin' bad." she mutters into her lap where her fingers lie sweaty and wrought together. 

"That's a double negative, come on- we've talked about this." I reply, sighing. 

Zayn stifles a chuckle from behind the principal, cheeks swollen and reddened. 

“Mr. Tomlinson, your daughter was caught directing copious amounts of profanities to one of her peers that I, in my twenty one years as an educator, have frankly never   
heard from such a young lady- explicitly derogative. I’m afraid her actions will result in a two day, at home suspension.” 

I heave a sigh, heavy and condensed from the depths of my chest. 

“Yeah, okay- thanks.” 

Xylia rises with me and I force a choked apology from her to the teacher and principal. 

“Don’ be mad at me, please, Daddy?” she whimpers, tugging at the hem of my gym shorts as I’ve started off to the car. 

“Don’t start.” 

I slam shut the car door, leaving her to scamper into her booster seat on her own. 

She sniffles from the backseat, spluttering tears and pardoning, leaving me to call Liam and back out of my evening shifts.

We’re nearly home, ACDC droning from the truck’s weathered stereo, when I receive a call from Harry’s cell. 

“Hey, we need to talk-”

“Lou- need your help.” comes the whimper on the incoming end. I refrain from slamming on my brakes at the quiver in his voice, a tangled mass of ruptured power lines. 

“What’s going on- are you okay? Harry, are you hurt?” 

He swallows a sob and says that he’s outside my flat. 

Xylia wastes no time in scampering from the car once I’ve pulled into a spot most convenient within the adjoining complex garage. She’s crying, too, trying to conceal it beneath the sleeve of her hand-me-down sweater- one that used to belong to one of my sisters years ago. 

“Come here, baby girl.” I sigh, hoisting her into my arms without awaiting response. She nuzzles into my chest, staining the front of my shirt with excess snot and tears. 

*

“Where were you last night?” I demand upon distinguishing a mop of curls stuck out from the living room sofa. 

Grumbling is a hardly sufficient response to skipping out on your boyfriend and daughter for God knows what and I further pursue him, standing adjacent to his crumpled form. 

As expected, he’s in yesterday’s clothes- an oversized white sleepshirt, black skinnies with the holes at the knees and upper thigh. 

His eyes are strained against the sunlight filtering in through the miniscule kitchen window and I’ve never seen them so lidded and bloodshot. 

From there on out, we had become friends again- best friends. Tremours and withdrawals and bouts in and out of rehab wrought our relationship of anything amorous. I was raising us; the two year old, the boy kicking opium, myself, too, and today informed me that not much had evolved. 

*

Harry’s curled against the entrance to my apartment, shuddering beneath the London weather trapped between the stitches of his flannel and I recognize the half moon impressions adorning his wrists and hands. 

“Papa?” 

He offers her a watered down smile and I notice the dried blood crusted along the skin below his lip where it’s still damp from what I muse to be a lead hit. The same goes for his left eye; already turned navy and thoroughly swollen. 

“Xy, can you head in- finish that chapter of The Philosopher’s Stone you were reading? I’ll be right there, yeah?” 

She eyes her father, sprawled across the floor and it’s another moment before she tugs the keys from my fist and let’s herself into the apartment. 

“Haz- hey, I’ll get you settled on the mattress, ‘right? Fancy some tea?” 

He nods, manuvering himself mechanically onto the living room ottoman where he cranes his ever-expanding limbs into a fetal position against its weathered flannel covering. I trail behind with his duffel and a brain so muddled in thought I can hardly see straight. Placing the bag at the foot of the neighbouring sofa, I proceed to tug the spare duvet over the shivering body of my ex-boyfriend so that it drapes evenly over his entirety. 

“Gonna grab you something to eat.” 

My resolve is a sleeve of double stuffed Oreos and peanut butter- the crunchy kind. 

As old friends often shared certain routines, Harry and I had ours- since Lindsey Lohan and herself in the Parent Trap remake that’d come out when we were still in primary school. 

“Thanks, Boo.” he says, immediately diving in to the platter. 

“Fill me in a bit.” I press once he’s started on what has got to be his eighth cookie. 

He sighs, bits of cake falling against the contrast of his rose coloured lips.

“It’s, fuck- I got kicked out o’ my flat, ‘n there’s no money left- or at least, not loads of it-”

“What got you kicked out?” 

But I know the words before they even leave his mouth. 

“Fucked the landlord, sold him some absolute shit- I’m talkin’ bottom of the barrel-” 

“You’re dealing again, unbelievable, Harry- Jesus Christ, what is this- Breaking Bad? You know well what this shit does!” 

“I can’t get by doing a few pieces a week, Lou! I’m trying, I swear I am.” he whimpers, tears reissued down his cheeks. 

I soften and lean into him, “I know, I know- shh, s’alright, Hazza, it’s going to be okay.”

 

sweetie, you don't look so good  
your bottom lip is bleeding.  
i cut it on your collarbone  
go on, go back to sleep.

sugar, who were you thinking of?  
you woke me with your breathing.  
honey, how am i supposed to tell?

if i were a spy in the world inside your head  
would i be your wife in a better life you led?


	10. Wild Horses

Harry ends up in Xylia’s bed that afternoon, where they remain snuggled together until I call them for an early dinner.

“How long’re you here with us, Papa?” she inquires, mouth full of pasta and broccoli.

“As long as you need.” I mouth when Harry catches my eye from across the counter. 

“For a while, love.” 

Xylia nods, smiling to herself when Harry pinches the dimple at the corner of her mouth, a Pavlovian tribute to her unrelated father. 

I’ve only just sat down between the two when there comes a knock at the door. 

 

Zayn is waiting just where Harry had been earlier that morning, a bag of take away tucked beneath his arm, and in just days I’ve seemed to forgotten his remarkable beauty. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans, remarkably fit around his thighs, and a sadistic t shirt about Marbolo blends beneath a weathered leather jacket. 

“Hey.”

“Hi, um- I just wanted to stop by, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened today.” 

I can’t stop the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth as I step aside, beckoning him past the the threshold. 

“Hey, Haz- you remember Xy’s teacher.” 

The two exchange cordial salutations before Zayn is bombarded by the six year old herself in a rapture of finger paint and half eaten pasta adorning the soft corners of her mouth. 

“Mr. Mal!” she yelps into the shoulder of his jacket, secure in his embrace. 

“Hey, little troublemaker.” he chuckles, sending me a knowing wink over the top of her head. 

He carries her off to the kitchen as it was his own, placing her back beside Harry. 

“You’re alright then?” he murmurs, passing me a carton of what I deemed Kung Pow chicken that I distribute between four plates. 

“Yeah, today was hectic, but, we’re functioning well enough.” I shrug. 

“S’there anything I can do?”

“The fact that you’re here is more than I’ve expected of anyone for the longest time.” I reply with an honest smile.

He kisses the tip of my nose, smiling. 

Xylia abandons her vegetables for a scoop of brown rice. 

“Thanks, Zayn.” Harry says, offering him a slight smile. 

“Course.”

 

“You should ask him to stay the night, you know.” 

Harry and I are clearing the kitchen and I nearly drop the plate I’m drying. 

“You’re out of your head, Haz.” 

“Why’s that- look at him!” 

He motions to where Xylia and Zayn are cosied up on the couch, finishing an episode of Spongebob Squarepants that’s been on the DVR since god knows when. 

“Can you get her to bathe while I pull out the couch?”

“Not unless you talk him into staying.” Harry rebutes, leaning back against the counter edge beside me, a self-satisfied smirk etched deep into his crater-dimples. 

“Why’ve you got to be so stubborn all the time? You’re my ex- you’re supposed to root against me moving on, yeah?” I blurt, hoping that the words don’t come across harsher than I had intended. 

I’m relieved when Harry lets out a chuckle, “Lou, I’m tired and far too sober to stop you from being happy. Help me to help you to then help me?”

“You’re such an asshole.” I reply, grinning. 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

Placing the last plate in the drying rack, he makes his way into the family room, swapping playful banter with Zayn before hoisting Xylia up onto his back and carrying her down the hallway towards our shared bathroom. 

Zayn sighs heavily, moving to his feet, “Better head out soon.”

Nibbling at the cuff around my bottom lip, I meet him halfway between the sofa and kitchen. I rest my arms around his neck, our noses bumping occasionally. 

“Stay- please.” 

He pulls away a bit to stare me directly on, “You’re serious?” 

“Maybe.” I say, suddenly timid and bashful as I reach a hand to scratch at the back of my own neck. 

But he grins, eyes hazel and dancing, and kisses me hard. 

I lead him to my room, staggering as we suffocate each other with kisses and love bites and subtle groping. I’ve remained wary to my daughter and her father in the ensuite bathroom, even when Zayn loosens the button along the front of my denims. 

“Gotta wait, ugh.” I say, biting back a moan that surfaces when Zayn discovers the soft skin just beneath my jawline. 

Zayn pulls away just in time for a naked Xylia to tear through the doorway of the bathroom, trailed by a less than animated Harry. 

“I’ll rangle her up, ‘right?” 

He leaves before I can protest, and Zayn and I are alone. 

“I’m knackered.” he says, collapsing back onto the bed, “s’alright if we just lay.. together? For tonight?” 

“Yeah, that’d be perfect.” I reply sincerely, and tell him that I’ve got to run and make sure that the other two are settled.

I find them cuddled beneath the covers of the couch pull out, her little fingers tracing along the purple bags hanging like drapes over the skin below her father’s eyes as he’s fallen asleep. 

“You’ve brushed your teeth, yeah?” I whisper, threading fingers through her damp hair. 

She nods. 

“Promise?”

She nods again, burrowing further into Harry’s side. 

“Thanks for takin’ care of your papa, I love you.” 

“Love you, Daddy.” 

 

Zayn’s shirtless across the covers, thumbing through the records on my bedside table. I kiss up the feather design between his shoulder blades, straddling his lower back. 

“I’m gonna get hard if you keep at that.” he murmurs, putting a disc on the player. 

“Maybe s’what I want.” I reply, sucking a bruise below his collarbone. 

“Babe, hey- not with Xy and your ex downstairs, alright?” 

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hurt, disappointed as I slinked back to my dresser, pulling on a sweatshirt that falls above the hem of my boxers. 

I slide beneath the covers, and turn to face him. 

“Lou, come here.” he coos, tugging me into his arms. 

“I wanna wait, love, just a bit.” 

I nod into his chest, pecking gently at his adam’s apple. 

“M’ taking the day off tomorrow.” he says. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Thought that’d we could hang a bit, us and Xylia, Harry too?” 

I switch off the light, kissing him sweet on the lips, “S’perfect, Zayn.” 

 

“No sweeping exits or off stage lines   
Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind   
Wild horses, couldn't drag me away   
Wild wild horses couldn't drag me away.”


	11. Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks

“Da- Mr. Mal?”

There’s an excess of shuffling and-

“Jesus, Xy. I told you to leave Daddy alone.” 

I groan, feeling Zayn shift awake beside me. His chest is spread out beneath my head; etched with a lipstain tattoo and ink cards and hickies fresh from last night. I kiss over the arabic text beneath his collarbone, watching as his thick eyelashes flutter as he adjusts to the morning light. 

He cards his fingers through my hair, pressing a kiss to each of my temples.

“Hi.”

“Hey.” 

“You wanna sleep a bit more- I’ll wake you when breakfast’s ready.” I offer, slipping into a shirt discarded across the nightstand. 

But he’s up with me, borrowing a flannel that’s far too large for his thin frame and he looks wonderful and sleep deprived and so, so handsome. 

He kisses me again, more awake this time. 

“Mornin’, Lou.” 

 

I put the kettle on and pour the four of us each bowls of hot cereal and blueberries. 

“I used to read my sisters when they were around your age.” Zayn tells Xylia, motioning to the first Harry Potter as it’s open face down upon the counter.

“They’re my favourite. Daddy reads it aloud to me at nightime.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

She pauses before continuing, “Maybe you could read to me- if you wanted.” 

And that’s how the two end up meshed together beneath the covers of my bed, allowing me time with Harry to discuss what had happened over the last twenty hours.

“What’d you want for dinner tonight? I know your diet’s been sorta on ‘n off since-” 

“M goin’ out with Nick ‘round then- he’s taking me to that pub off of Brandino. He knows the guy who owns it, I guess- says he’d hook us up fat.” 

The last part comes out before he can stop himself- and he recoils into the nook of the sofa, rummaging desperately about his Jansport for a pack of Camels. 

“Jesus Christ.” I hiss, stomping off to the kitchen to busy myself with yesterday’s fry up pans.

“I knew you’d freak like this-”

“What do you want from me, Harry? We’ve been through this before- you didn’t see your daughter for five months. Is that what you want again?” I snap, pinching at the inside folds of my elbows where it hurts most. 

“It’s not like last time- I’m in control, okay?” he retorts, snuggling farther into the wool expanse of his oversized sweater. 

“Show me your arms.” I say. 

“Wha- no! You don’t understand anything. I’m not some fucking junkie!” 

“Oh really? And how’s that?” 

I fold my arms across my chest and leaning back against the counter, watch his eyes swell and redden. 

“FUCK YOU.” 

He slams the door behind him and he’s so fucking selfish. 

 

I start crying when Zayn hugs me. We’re alone in my bed, Xylia dozing in the next room. 

“Sh, Lou- s’all going to be okay babe, I swear- sh sh.”

I nod into his chest, relinquishing the feel of his body as it’s curled around me. He kisses me across my forehead, going out of his way to pay special attention to each of   
my piercings- eyebrow, nose, lip. My eyelids are swollen, gluey against my corneas and I hold impossibly tighter to Zayn. 

He promises that he’ll be here for us: me and Xylia and Harry. 

He sings then, swooning and soft in the already fragile atmosphere and it’s the most lovely thing I’ve ever heard. 

 

“Leave your home  
Change your name  
Live alone  
Eat your cake  
All the very best of us   
String ourselves up for love  
All the very best of us   
String ourselves up for love  
All the very best of us   
String ourselves up for love  
All the very best of us   
String ourselves up for love.”

 

It’s dark when I rise again, the light from streetlamps seething in through the pillowcase curtains that frame my window. Zayn’s reading to Xylia again, my daughter curled around a bowl of Kraft macaroni beside him on the sofa. 

I catch my reflection in the toaster and see how the red in my hair has faded, my honey coloured roots staking a claim of their own. 

 

The oven alarm tells me it’s eight already, and I give Xylia a bath and put her down for the night. 

“Where’d Papa go?” she asks as I’m on my way out. 

“He went to Nick’s.” 

I hear her huff and rustle about her sheets in the darkness. 

“Idiot.” 

 

“Alright, babe?” Zayn inquires when I throw myself facedown onto the comforter beside him. 

“Yeah.” I reply honestly, snuggling into his side. 

“Fancy watching a film?” 

 

We settle on Lord of the Fellowship and I light a few candles around the room and I can’t imagine that life can get better than this. 

The hobbits have just teamed up with Liv Tyler when I feel Zayn stir beneath my ass and the thought alone of him hard in my sweatpants is enough to get me started. 

I roll over to face him, running my tongue experimentally along the ridge of his adam’s apple, wary of the following shudder that rips through him. 

My hand curls to grasp his hip, forcing us closer together. 

“Lou, hm.” 

In an instant he’d flipped us, straddling my waist and urged my shirt off. 

“You’re sure about this?”

I barely nod before pressing him into me again. 

“Can I-?” he slide his hand down my crack, massaging the outer pucker of my rectum. 

“Fuck, please.” 

“Lube?” 

“Yeah, yeah- first drawer.” 

He uncaps the lubricant from the nightstand, placing a condom on the pillowcase beside my head.

He spends careful time prepping me: easing in up to three fingers before I beg him to stop. 

“Need you, your cock.” 

“Alright, alright, beautiful boy.” he says, nipping at the insides of my thighs until I’m writhing beneath him. 

He’s precise and careful, sliding the condom over the head of his prick, pinching the rubber tip as it’s slick with lube. 

He kisses me during the initial squeeze, moaning into my mouth and he tastes like me and spearmint and reds. 

“Ar-are you okay?” he manages once I’ve bottomed out entirely. 

“Yeah, please- move.” 

 

It’s fresh, when the leaves crunch beneath Timberlands at the middle of September and suddenly everything’s orange and brown and yellow before you know it. And Zayn is that: new and familiar all at the same time like the changing of the seasons and I’m so caught up in everything he is. 

He lights a cigarette within an hour afterwards, perched on the windowsill a few feet from the mattress, sending plumes of smoke out into to the night through a crevice in the window. He keeps his eyes on me, smiling around the fag. 

It’s half one when he claims the extra toothbrush beneath the sink and settles in beside me, enveloping me in warm ash scents. 

His breath is soft against the nape of my neck and he says something inaudible before I fall asleep.


	12. Broken Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is my most recent chapter to date. thank you for reading :)

“Lou, babe- wake up.”

I groan, curling farther beneath the covers in an attempt to shake Zayn’s patting. “Harry’s home now, he needs your help.”

 

He’s collapsed in front of the toilet, wailing and whimpering into the ceramic bowl so that it echoes and comes off louder than it really is. 

He has scabs running up and down his forearms and a few on his biceps. 

Xylia’s sat on the edge of the tub, picking cautiously the stray curls that have fallen in her father’s line of vision and there’s not the faintest trace of fear about her. 

“I’ll get her.” Zayn says, passing by me through the doorjamb. 

She’s surprisingly obedient when he collects her in his arms, letting Harry’s fringe fall back against his peakish forehead. 

“-this chapter’s a really good one, I swear- you’ll see…” 

He kisses me once on his way out, Xylia’s head acquiesced to the cap his right shoulder and leaves me to Harry. 

“Don’ like this, Lew- hurts, HURTS.” he all but screams, throat clogged with a flurry of unreleased sobs. 

“Yeah, I know it does.” I sigh, running a hand towel under the faucet until it’s swamped with warm water. 

I kneel beside him and run it across his forehead and portions of his cheeks and mouth that’ve fallen victim to vomit. 

He starts shaking and slaps my hand away, sending the rag hurtling to the opposite side of the room. 

“Jesus, Haz- knock it off.” I snap and he begins to cry. 

In the time it takes for me to recover the towel he’s chucked all over himself in a blubbering mess. 

“Alright, let’s get this off, get you in the bath- easy peasy.”

Drawing the bath with borderline scalding water, I help him off his clothes and lower his six plus frame into the tub’s end. 

“There you go.” I whisper, only to have him thrash about aimlessly. 

“I’m goin’ grab your clothes really fast, okay? Sit tight.” 

I fetch a pair of his sweats and a t shirt from his duffel and some supplies from the cabinet above the stove (Neosporin and medical tape).

I find Harry in the same place I’ve left him (it’s not always been this way), and knead shampoo and conditioner into his scalp, earning a scratch across the jaw. 

His nose starts bleeding profusely at one point and he cries even more, spluttering a series of blundered apologies. 

I dress him then, gaze and antibiotic cream applied over the open wounds and tuck him into his sleeping bag on the sofa. 

“Xy, where’s her?” he murmurs, tossing about. 

“Sleeping, Harry.” 

He grunts, nuzzling further into the couch cushions. 

I place a wastebin on the floor beside his head and a glass of water and parcemol on the neighbouring coffee table. I tug a blanket over me and settle down at the opposite end of the couch. 

Zayn joins me minutes later, easing himself into my lap beneath the blanket. 

“She’s asleep, happy, all that good shit.” 

“Thank you, Zee.”

 

Wrenching sounds disrupt the morning atmosphere and Zayn stirs awake in my lap, groaning slightly. 

“Hey- back to sleep, yeah?” 

He fights me only a bit as I take him tight in my arms and carry him off to my room where I tuck him into my bed. 

“Feel like shite.” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I bet, Casanova.”

He whines into his pillow as another wave of nausea envelops him fully and he resumes vomiting. 

“I’m making you a burrito.” I announce, organizing a system of fry up and breakfast meats and vegetables along the counter space alongside the stove. 

“No!” 

“I don’t remember there being any primaries in Trainspotting.” I reply cooly, wary of his encroaching tantrum. 

Five, four, three, two-

“Is this a fuckin’ joke to you- like, do you think this is funny?” 

I saute together the vegetables and eggs and remove the sausage from its pan, letting it steam from an open plastic plate. 

“Honestly? At this point, yes.” I say, unable to cover the dry laugh that escapes my mouth. 

And he starts shouting, each coming slur indistinguishable from the other. 

“I’m calling Gemma.” 

“No- Louis, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry sorry sorry-”

“Harry, this isn’t fucking American Horror Story! I can’t keep putting you back together, to heal you, only to have you relapse and turn to shit again, I’m not your Zoe.” 

He falls to the floor, sobbing, and I abandon my breakfast efforts to heave him up and back onto the couch. 

“Hey, yeah- it’s Louis, Harry, yeah.” 

 

Harry’s sister arrives around eleven, purple bags heavy beneath her eyes and she’s devastated. She reports that she called Anne on the way over from her flat in Bristol and that she has agreed to sponsor Harry’s treatment. 

“They’ll be round to pick him up at half one.” she says, drawing her fingers through his hair as he’s fallen asleep in her lap. 

“Thanks, Gems.” 

She nods, lips pressed into a tight lipped smile as she shoots me a gentle wink. 

“You’ve taken good care of him, you know.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

 

Harry’s a mess by the time the doctors are round to retrieve him and refuses to leave Xylia behind. Thankfully, Zayn is at the ready and carts her off to my bedroom before she can see him injected with a mild sedative. 

“Loubear.” he whimpers. 

We’re alone for the moment as Gemma follows the staff off to the car to sign papers and see off the bulk of Harry’s necessities. 

 

“You breathe, you learn, you lose.  
You take, you break, you choose.  
And as, you learn, and cry.  
You do, your best, and try.  
And as, the days, go by.  
It makes you, wonder why.  
You try so hard, so hard.  
To mend what's bound to fall apart  
Ooh maybe it's time  
To let it go  
Ooh maybe it's time  
For taking it slow  
Ooh maybe it's time, time, time  
For anything at all  
Time, time, time, to let it all fall  
Where it may.” 

Gemma takes her car over to assure that he’s settled in alright, and we hug goodbye and relish in an unspoken mutual gratitude. 

Zayn’s made peanut butter and jam sandwiches cut out in the shape of stars for the three of us and holds my hand beneath the table while we eat. Xylia is less shaken up than she should be and focuses the majority of her attention to completing the second half of the drawing she and Zayn constructed this morning. 

“I’m so sorry, Zayn- I swear, it’s usually so mellow ‘round here I don’t know what’s-”

“Babe, s’alright, yeah? Don’t apologize, there’s nothing you’ve done wrong.” he murmurs, working his lips against my jaw. 

“Thank you, thank you.” I all but groan when he relocates the spot behind my ear. 

“I’m here, Lou, I’m here.”


	13. There Is A Light & It Never Goes Out

Decrepit status quo resumes the following Monday and against my will, I leave things for Zayn to decide. Xylia remains quiet, refusing to talk about anything Harry-related and by Tuesday I’ve quite given up and settle for the plan of taking her to visit him on Friday. 

My agitation spikes on Wednesday when Zayn is yet to contact me and Liam has asked why Niall revoked his gym subscription and Eleanor is my closing client. Liam tells me to lock up once we’re finished and leaves us to it. 

 

“Right, left, hook, uppercut-” 

Eleanor strips the velvo from her gloves and settles to the mat floor, lying spread eagle beneath me. 

“C’mon, El, I’ve gotta get Xy in thirty.” I plead, extending an arm towards her unwilling frame. 

She arches her back slightly off the ground, smirking, “I’ve had a long week- how about you get down here and show me how you ‘relieve tension.’”

“Eleanor, please-”

“I pay for you, bad boy. Lick. Me. Down.” 

“I’m seeing someone.” 

She sits up her elbows then, snapped out of her amorous fantasy. 

“Excuse me?” 

I sigh, clinging to the hairs turned honey brown at the nape of my neck and all I want is to be with Xylia and for Zayn to call and for Harry to stay sober. 

“I’m sorry- I didn’t know how to tell you, but he just-” 

“HE?” 

 

I’m defeated: forgetting that Xylia had soccer practice (Wednesday nights are usually Harry’s designated time). She stays at Josh’s for dinner until I get the message that he has her and he says it wasn’t a problem, that she’s welcome over anytime. She and Ruth played Barbies and all was fine. 

She continues to keep her distance with me on the way home and throughout the next morning and I don’t press it until after I pick her up from school. 

“Wanna come see Papa with me tomorrow?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“He’s a twat.” she replies with a clipped aftertaste and I nearly run a stop sign. 

“Xylia Lorelai Tomlinson! How many times have I got to tell you that you can’t talk like that, especially about your father.” 

“He makes you cry and me too and he hurts everyone near him.”

Watching her begin to cry in the rearview mirror, I can’t imagine that someone so young could be so hurt, and there’s no denying that she’s right. 

I didn’t want her to be like me and that’s the way it’s chalking up to be. 

So I pull the car off to the side parking lot of the gas station a few minutes from our flat. I crawl into the back seat beside her and heave her into my lap. 

“That’s why you’ve been so quiet, huh?” 

She nods into my chest, her hands, tearstained, fist the front of my t-shirt as if I’m bound to fly away. 

“I’m sorry, Little One, I’m so, so sorry.” 

She cries harder for a minute before the sobs dissolve into sniffles and she peers up at me with the cerulean eyes she inherited from me. 

“He’s going to be okay, you know? It might take a while, like two seasons of Full House maybe,” I say, drawing a laugh from her chapped lips, “but we’re all gonna turn out just fine- bible.” 

I read aloud until she falls asleep in the space beside me and I’ve just turned out the light when my phone vibrates from its place charging on the nightstand. 

 

Zayn Malik:  
You + me, friday night.  
My mate agreed to sit for Xy-  
she’s legit :) xx

 

Friday morning finds me anxious and jolting upright to the beginning whine of my alarm. Xylia takes her time getting ready for school and we turn up at the office a half hour late. 

 

She doesn’t talk much on the way to Horizon (a twenty minute car ride just outside the city) and I take the time to fill her in on what’s to be expected. 

“So, Papa’s not feeling good and I know you’re mad at him, but please- try to be nice, okay? He’s in a lot of pain right now.” I say as we pull into the parking lot that lies beyond the institution’s terrace. 

She eyes the patients through the windows as they’re sat on starch sofas and ottomans playing cards and reading. 

“What’s wrong with them?”

“You know how you like sweets, and how you want them a lot of the time?” 

She nods.

“Well, they- Papa, is in there because he really, likes this certain sweet, but it makes him very ill.”

She’s perplexed for a moment, and shrugs, “S’ his fault for tryin’ it.” 

“Yeah, I know- you’re more than right. For now, we’ve got to be gentle with him.”

I take her hand in mine and proceed through the automatic doors.

 

The nurse says he’s been like this for the past three days: huddled against the nook of the window seat in his room, stoic and entirely unresponsive to the daily morphine injections. His head rests against steel rods bracketing the safety window and he doesn’t acknowledge us at first, arms securing his frame in a flurry of loose gray clothing. 

“I’ll leave you two, then, shout if you need anything.” he says, slipping out. 

“Thanks, Clark.”

Xylia tugs at the leg of my denims, sending me an anxious look that has her in my arms within a two seconds. 

I move so that we’re sat across from him on his bed. 

“Hey.” I try, instinctively pulling the bundle in my arms closer. 

He turns his head slightly, eyeing us in his peripheral. 

It’s silent for a few moments until Xylia sits up in my lap. 

“S’stupid- he’s not gonna talk to us ‘n if he does it’s gonna be mean to make you cry.” 

Harry’s sniffles go from near silent to muffled sobs. Xylia migrates onto the window seat and slips up beneath his folded arms and forces herself into his chest. 

“Be still, Papa.” she says, below a whisper. 

She repeats it over and over until he’s quiet and holds her tight.

 

Harry and I exchange nods on the way out, and his eyes are so red and strained that I know he can hardly see beyond his daughter but he smiles anyway, tight-lipped.  
I take Xylia for Dairy Queen before circling back to the flat to pack an overnight bag for Zayn’s and properly situate her for the evening (money on the counter for take away, dvds, etc.). 

“I’m proud of you- the way you were with Papa- I couldn’t have done better, probably not even Auntie or Gramma.” I say once everything’s set and ready and we’re curled up together on the couch watching The Addams Family. 

She smiles, mouth dressed in a coat of leftover vanilla malt, and hugs me tight. 

“I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, Daddy.”

 

I manage to squeeze my arse into a pair of black pants that leave so little to the imagination and I hope the loose flannel I wear on top will compensate as attractive.  
I slick my hair, freshly redyed, into a clipped crewcut and run a thin streak of black eyeliner along waterline. 

“You look pretty, Daddy.” Xylia says from her place beside me on the bathroom sink. I reach a hand to ruffle her hair and reply, “Thanks, Little One.” 

 

Her name is Perrie, and right away Xylia wants to keep her. She arrives with Zayn and we leave within two minutes (he tugs me out the door as I’m explaining to her aimless emergency details). 

He takes me to an Italian place a few minutes from where his flat lies overlooking the Thames. It’s irrivocably romantic and the wine settles my nerves and spreads warmth throughout my entire body. 

After three courses, he insists on covering the tab, we walk along the levees. 

“Can, I’d like this to be a more permanent thing? If you’d want?” he inquires once we’ve reached a place where the water is swamped in profound moonlight. He shoves his hands deep within the pocket confines of his black peacoat and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

“Are you asking me out, Mal?”

He lets out an unsteady laugh and nods, “Yeah.” 

“N you’d be my boyfriend?”

“Suppose it’s what usually comes about.” 

“Alright.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

His place is on the fifth floor of a Victorian building, upheld by walls of decaying red and gold. There’s a green velvet couch situated at the apex of front room, surrounded by a rug and a television set, with an adjoined kitchen and dining nook. 

He introduces me to the film prints of his sisters and parents that decorate the walls of his flat and they’re all so beautiful, eyes the same as his own. 

“Fancy a film?” he asks, shrugging out of his jumper. 

“Fancy you more.” I reply, tugging him into me. 

I press kisses along the sharp edge of his jaw (it’s freshly cut), breathing in his aftershave and rotating my hips slightly so that are crotches brush together. 

He groans, vibrations rippling against my lips as I stray further down his neck. 

“Wha’you want, baby?”

“Want you to bend me over the counter.”

“Fuck, fuck, yeah.” 

He urges me up around his waist, cupping my ass tightly in his hands as he maneuvers us over to the kitchen, laying me flat upon the granite tiling. With my shirt off, he sucks marks across the expanse of my chest, awarding special attention to my nipples until they’re dense and red. 

“Come ON, Zee- please.” 

He shucks his jeans and soon we’re down to our briefs, both fully hard. 

“I’ve gotta- one sec.” 

I yelp when he pulls away, disappearing momentarily, only to return with a bottle of XY and a rubber. 

He removes my briefs with adept sufficiency and peppers the base of my cock with kisses. 

“Beautiful, Lou, so beautiful.” 

He pulls his cock and balls over the waistband of his boxers and lubes up his trigger fingers and inserts them one by one until I’m nearly screaming. 

“N-now?”

I manage a nod, eying his prick as it’s pressed flush against his stomach. He applies generous lube to the entirety of his penis and eases himself into me. 

Hissing, I grasp that back of his neck until I’ve fully bottomed out. He groans again, leaning forward fully until his pubic hair is nestled against my sac. 

I come first, shooting so high that it hits Zayn’s chin and completely decorates his chest. He follows close behind me, gripping my hips tight when he does. 

“Oh, oh-” 

His back arches and I’ve notice that he completely freezes up like this and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so hot. 

 

Afterwards, he wipes us both down and tucks me beneath his duvet. 

“You’re beautiful.” he says, carding his fingers through my fringe. 

I blush, ducking my head to nibble at the lipstain tattoo in the centre of his chest.

“Seriously, though.” 

I sit up against him to kiss him properly. 

“Boyfriend.” he says, smiling.

“Idiot.” 

He sticks his tongue and reaches over to switch the lamp, whispering stubborn jibberish before settling back in beside me. 

"And if a double-decker bus  
Crashes into us  
To die by your side  
Is such a heavenly way to die."


	14. So Nice So Smart

“Moveinwithme.” Zayn splutters over dinner one night at mine. 

We’re sat around the kitchen table with Xylia at the head of the table. I let my fork fall to my plate in a swamp of tofu and soy sauce residue. 

“What did you just say?” 

Zayn swallows audibly from across the table, “Hey, Xy- wanna head up? I’ll be there in a sec.” 

“M not tired!”

“Xylia.” I interject, shooting her a precautionary look. 

She sighs and pushes away from the table, stomping off to her bedroom. 

“Fuck’s sake- now she’s sore at me, what’d you need to do that for, huh?” I snap, finding him equally unhappy.

“Don’t get pissy with me, Louis, Jesus.” he sighs and begins clearing away the dishes. 

“Really? You can hardly blame me for being slightly dissatisfied that you would drop a bomb like that in front of our daughter…”

He stops what he’s doing, returning the salt and pepper set to its original place on the table. 

“Did you, you just said-”

“Fuck, fuck. You should go.” 

“Lou-”

“LEAVE.” 

Zayn peers up at me with wide eyes before heading out the front door. 

I set my head down atop my elbows as they’re stacked against the table and utter a heavy sigh. 

“Fuck.” 

 

That night I sleep on the sofa (my sheets and pillows reek of Zayn), cuddled up with a spare comforter. 

 

“Daddy? It’s late, really late.” says a voice, prodding me awake the next morning. 

“Shit.” I groan into the cushion behind my head before sitting up. 

I utter a string of curse words upon eying the cable box as it reads in flashing green font, 8:30 AM. 

Zayn texts me halfway through the day.   
“glad to see you taking care of our daughter… half an hour late.” 

Fucking asshole, I murmur to myself, praying that I won’t have to interact much with Zayn when I get home. 

Liam ends up pulling me aside later in the evening to ask me about Eleanor.

“She’s revoked her membership, you know?” he says, as we scrub down the bathroom floor. 

“Yeah? That sucks.” I reply. 

He sets his sponge on the ground and faces me head on. 

“Louis, you can’t keep doing this. Your sexlife has cost me two clients in the last couple months. I love you, and you’re my best trainer- please, don’t put me in this sort of position again.” 

 

The day leaves me entirely too defeated to face anything besides sleep and some junk food and my feet are slow against the pavement on the way home, disregarding the icy London air whirling about me. Sure enough, I see Zayn’s torso leaning out the living room window from the third floor, nursing what I guess to be his umpteenth cigarette of the day. 

“Hi, Daddy!” Xylia squeals, hurtling herself into my arms the minute I pass through the threshold. 

“Hey, chick-a-dee.” 

I hoist her into my arms, rubbing her back as I move into the living room where Zayn is putting out his cigarette upon the outer window sill. 

He averts his eyes and proceeds to fiddle with his cell phone, smiling to himself. 

“Wanna set the table for dinner, Xy?”

She nods, ducking off to the pantry where she proceeds to rummage around for table clothes and silverware. 

“Hey.” I sigh, moving in between Zayn’s legs. 

He remains focused on something outside in the streets, his head propped up against the wood pane. 

“I’m sorry, Zee.” I whisper, rubbing my nose against his. 

He pecks my lips gently, still unspeaking. 

“I love you.” I say and his eyes widen impossibly. 

“You’re not just sayin’ that, are you?”

I shake my head because I’d never loved anyone other than Harry and Xylia and the thought of a life without Zayn was revolting and disorderly. 

“Love you, too, baby.” he replies, smiling against my mouth. 

“Gonna ride you tonight, maybe tie you up and go real slow.” 

“Shit, Lou- you, I’m gonna help Xy.” he splutters, sauntering away towards the kitchen. 

I slap his ass lightly, “You do that, love.”

 

You're so nice and you're so smart  
You're such a good friend I hafta break your heart  
Tell you that I love you then I'll tear your world apart  
Just pretend I didn't tear your world apart

 

I go alone to visit Harry in the morning, limping through a light pat down from the resident security guard and up the stairs to his dorm. 

He still has the shakes, and sweats profusely through the entirety of our visit. 

“We’re proud of you, you know.” I say, resting my head against the mattress space where he lies. 

“Who’s we?”

“Me, Zayn, Xy, Gems- you know, the usual suspects.” 

He cringes slightly, coiling into a ball at the end of his bed where he reaches the apex of his quaking. 

I sigh and sit back in my seat. 

“Harry.”

I crawl into the space beside him and massage gently at the nape of his neck (it’s always been his point of tranquility, ever since we were nine). 

“You’re tough, yeah? You’ve known that forever but, you can do this.” 

“Wh-wh-what if I do-n’t-t?” he sobs wetly, still faced away from me. 

“Then you won’t get to be post-amputation Jared Leto? Shit, Haz, I don’t know.” 

“Are you mocking me?” he spits, meeting my gaze finally with a set of red rimmed eyes, sallow in the fluorescent lights above. 

I can’t even front this anymore- this handholding, same shit as the two times prior when he’d left me and Xylia stranded in a concave of worry and debt. 

“What’d you reckon I should do then? Tak’n the piss can’t make this any worse- I mean, since being soft with you has certainly proved unsuccessful thus far. You have a daughter, who needs you.” I shrug, laughing drily.

“She’s not even my fucking daughter- Jesus! D’you ever think the reason ‘ve been here so many times has to do with you, hm?”

 

I want to say that when I got home, I pulled it together, for me, for Zayn, for Xylia. I want to say that I picked up Thai for supper, that we spent that evening as a trio crowded around the kitchen table playing “Sorry!”. I want to say that we tucked Xylia in at a reasonable hour and spent the rest of the night kissing and fucking and loving. 

 

When I get home, Zayn is folding laundry with Xylia curled into his side, watching Bob’s Burgers with her thumb protruding against her left cheek. 

There’s chicken still cooling on the stove, rosemary rub from the smell of it and it envelops me the minute I pass the threshold. And it’s so homey and quaint and Zayn is genuinely happy to see me, waving me over from his niche on the sofa before he picks up on the anxiety dammed up behind my smile. 

He picks me up and carries me over to his original place, allowing me to whimper into his neck. 

And I realize that I’ve raised a daughter who isn’t the least bit phased to see her father break down completely. I’ve driven my best friend to opiates. I’ve evoked abuse from my father and ex boyfriend. 

There’s only so much coincidence one life can handle and my own reached its capacity long ago.


	15. Sometime Around Midnight II (Epilogue)

6 years later: 

I lean back in between Zayn’s thighs, feeling his arms flex around my waist upon instinct. 

“What’re we going to do with a teenager, huh?” he murmurs, kneading my hips lightly with the calloused tips of his fingers.

“Fuck if I knew.” I huff (I’ve been rather in denial about Xylia’s birthday at it fast approaches). 

“Idiot.” 

He worms his way on top of me, straddling my crotch and that’s when he catches the worry in my eyes. 

“Lou- hey.” he runs a hand through the exhausted edges of my fringe as he takes to holding me again. 

Dontcrydontcrydontcry. 

 

It’s tomorrow, the five year anniversary of Harry’s death. Five years since his mum had discovered him sprawled across his bathroom floor, mouth edged with foam and bile and tears. 

His journal contained a harlequin of notes, to his family, Xylia, me.

Notyourfaultnotyourfaultnotyourfault. 

“D’you reckon she’ll remember this year?” 

Zayn is reluctant to nod, snuggling further into me. 

“Fuck.” “She’s okay, Lou, I swear to you,” he assures, “we had a talk about it on the way home yesterday. She knows it’s a bad day, ‘specially for you, ‘n she’s okay, well   
relatively okay.”

“I love you.” I lean in to press my lips to his in earnest, groaning softly as our crotches gravitate together. 

“You wanna fuck me?” I inquire once we’ve rid ourselves of meager pajamas, batting at my own erection as it leaks against his. 

He sends me a questioning look (knowing I prefer to top when I’m at my most vulnerable. 

“I trust you.” 

 

And it’s just when he begins lubing up his prick that the door to our bedroom is flung open, leaving in its wake a trembling four year old. 

“Shit, shit.” I toss Zayn his briefs from where they lie tangled between my ankles. 

“Harry Tomlinson-Malik, you get up here and give me some cuddles.” A grin breaches on the boy’s face, nearly identical to Zayn’s, and he wastes no time in hurtling himself onto the mattress beside his father. 

“Baba, s’noises in my room.” he plasters himself to Zayn’s front, whimpering. 

“Want Daddy to check it out?” I offer, ruffling his fringe. 

He nods into Zayn’s chest, giving me a watery smile, dimple quirking up at the right corner of his mouth. 

“I’ll be right back, baby.” I say, pecking Zayn on the lips before setting off down the corridor towards the kitchen.

I gather two glasses of milk and a sleeve of Oreos and a jar of peanut butter and retrace my steps, stopping short at the door before the master bedroom. 

I knock softly before entering, finding Xylia propped up against a few pillows, nose buried deep in my battered copy of Youth In Revolt. 

“Hi Little Bean.” 

“Can we listen to the Midnight song?” she manages and I know she’s been crying, “Number six.” 

She has her own player now, and left in the shadows cast by the christmas lights across her backboard, I hold her close to me. Even in the dark, she traces her pointer finger over the more recent portrait on my bicep and shudders as the orchestra whines the song’s initial chords. 

“I love you, Dad.” 

“I love you, Xy. Sleep tight.” 

 

And it starts Sometime around midnight  
Or at least that's when you lose yourself   
For a minute or two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :) i didn't mean to end it so suddenly but here ya go


End file.
